LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf...V.l...L. 



UNITED STATES OF AMEKICA. 



Selections from Wordsworth, 

SKitI} Notes 



BY 



A. J. g^EORGE, M.A., 

INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH LITERATURE AND HISTORY IN 
NEWTON (mass.) HIGH SCHOOL. 



Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays. 



Second EDiTit 

''^qO P"^ RIGHT- 




-HING 

BOSTON, U.S. 
D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS. 
1890. 



y 






Copyright, 1889, 
By a. J. George. 






Co Mu Wife* 



IN MEMORY OF HOURS WITH WORDSWORTH 
AT THE ENGLISH LAKES. 



PREFACE. 



IF it be true that ancient literature concerned itself largely 
• with Nature, and mediaeval with ideas of God, surely 
the literature of the modern world has neglected neither of 
these great subjects, but has united them with a third, — the 
character of man, his origin, his present condition, and his 
future destiny. Again, while in the earlier periods man was 
a creature of the present and lived in the senses, and in the 
Middle Ages he was oblivious of the present and looked only 
to the securing of a peaceful future, now he considers the 
present in its relation to the future, and views life as one and 
continuous, having no abrupt changes or limitations. 

Views of the place of man in the Divine plan, which pre- 
vail now among the most thoughtful, are more consistent 
with the spirit of Christianity than those which were held 
heretofore. To what is this due ? I believe that it is quite 
as much the result of the transparent Christian character, the 
beautiful sympathy, and the catholic fraternity of those who 
have influenced literary taste, as to the founding of systems 
of philosophy or theology. While modern science has often 



VI PREFACE. 

assumed the truth of conclusions which have seemed atheistic, 
it has been confronted, not with theoretical commonplace, 
but with moral life ; and when it has attempted to account for 
this, and it has failed to find in its laboratory apparatus suffi- 
ciently delicate to test spirit, motive, life, men have concluded 
that its philosophy was x\o\. final after all. 

The struggle of this century has been between the advo- 
cates of blind force — worshippers at the altar of an eternal 
It — and the disciples of Intelligent Free Causation, with re- 
sults by no means discouraging to the latter. It is in aid of 
faith that literature has contributed its best efforts, and in it 
we find that trinity of God, Man, and Nature which appeals 
to the imagination, the heart, and the conscience ; its motive 
has been to free, arouse, dilate. 

A companionship with those who have been foremost in 
the application of ideas to life will assist us in dispelling those 
illusions which tend to refine away the personality of man, 
and attempt to account for consciousness in terms of physics, 
destroying the unity both of the world and of the mind. 

The connection between literature and life is vital ; and 
what we need is not acquisition and information, so much 
as inspiration and illumination — a consciousness of mental 
and moral power which can see clearly and feel deeply. By 
living in vital relation to such writers as have furnished the 
literature of power, and feeling the force of their clear and 
pure spirituality, we attain that attitude of mind in which we 
are able to receive faithful impressions, and to make true 
observations. When the heart of the reader beats in sym- 
pathy with the heart of the writer, both the sense and beauty 



PREFACE. Vii 

of the work become apparent. But this mental attitude is 
one of the rarest in the history of criticism; it requires 
patience and fortitude, a willingness to use all the faculties 
of our nature, and then abide the result without exercising 
a prurient curiosity, or becoming anxious lest we be not able 
to formulate the method. 

In the matter of literary criticism we need to guard against 
those scientific methods which assume that culture is mainly a 
thing of the head, and that the interpretation of literature is 
a thing to be acquired by the same methods as the ability to 
demonstrate Euclid. An age of speculation is not an age of 
faith, nor is an age of criticism an age of creation. A system 
has prevailed by which the critic is constituted a supreme 
judge, who, sitting apart, without sympathy or reverence, is to 
pronounce sentence upon the culprit who has dared to violate 
the judicial standard. In his charge he uses those maxims 
and doctrines which have become the commonest furniture 
of the commonest minds ; he pronounces the style obscure, 
affected, or classical, the method involved, and the matter 
puerile or unintelligible, but does not explain what he means 
by these terms ; * if he would only give us the law by which 
we might be prevented from writing or speaking anything 
that is not simple, natural, and manly ' what a blessing he 
would confer ! Our disciples of this inner temple of formal- 
ism ply their trade and insist upon a microscopical analysis, 
a fine sifting of word and phrase, a delicate classification of 
figure, and a comparative anatomy of form ; while the stu- 
dent, who may not taste a flower till it have yielded up its 
sweets a preUbation to this pedant's idol, seeing that his 



Viil PREFACE. 

knowledge is purchased by the loss of power, votes the au- 
thor dull and the study of literature a bore : — 

" For this unnatural growth the trainer blame, 
Pity the tree." 

It was at the bar of such criticism that Wordsworth, Cole- 
ridge, Scott, Tennyson, and Browning were condemned. 
Now if the history of art has decided anything, it is that an 
attitude of mental receptivity is what enables one to sympa- 
thize, to grasp a work as an organic whole, and to understand 
the law governing the combination of phenomena which pro- 
duced the supreme total effect. 

Maurice, one of the most sympathetic and catholic men of 
this century, says : " Let us try to know what an author says 
before we proceed to classify or to pass sentence upon him. 
It is wonderful how much our faculties of discernment will 
grow and unfold themselves if we begin by throwing all our 
notions about style overboard, and simply come to be taught 
why this author spoke in this way, and that in another ; why 
this was significant of him and of the time in which he lived, 
and another belonged to a person who lived in a different 
time and who had another work." 

It is by vital energy of soul projected into their works that 
the poets have moved men. 

Wordsworth, "a severe but genial critic," was the first to 
insist that each new genius, each new personality, should be 
judged by new canons applicable to him alone, and that 
every artist must create the taste by which he is to be appre- 
ciated. For this he was roundly abused ; his prefaces were 



PREFACE. IX 

called "stuff and nonsense ;" but the truth he uttered has, 
nevertheless, become one of the established canons of 
criticism. 

It is not worth while for us to spend our time with those 
authors who have made literature a trade or a profession ; 
life is too short for us to stand listening to those who do not 
recognize that "the hfe is more than meat," and that the rise 
and fall of books obey the same law now as thousands of 
years ago, — the degree in which they bear witness to the 
grand truth of the priceless value of every human soul, rather 
than to what is distinctive of a particular class. 

A distinguished living poet and critic,^ after asking whether 
literature, under the present ideas of life and education, will 
on the whole be an enemy to luxury and an inspirer of virtue, 
or an ally of materialism and a pander to vice, says : " There 
is not a rural village, nor a mighty city, the peace of which 
will not one day depend upon the answer time must make to 
this question." 

In these times of " storm and stress," as the Germans say, 
of handicrafts and trades and mechanical marvels, of rapid 
reading of newspapers, reviews, and periodicals, it may seem 
presumption to insist upon any degree of literary culture for 
the majority ; they must be left to their newspapers and re- 
views, which are so much better than those their fathers had. 
Now the objection to this laissez faire theory is that they 
are thus left entirely ignorant of that personal element in 
literature which constitutes its very life ; they are in inter- 
course with an infinite We, for which it is impossible to form 
1 Aubrey de Vere. 



X PREFACE. 

an intimate friendship. Now the power of personality, of 
exalted manhood, has everywhere stamped its impress upon 
the masterpieces of literature ; and a true appreciation of 
these indicates a moral earnestness, a disposition to seek "the 
best that has been thought and said in the world," and this 
is what we mean by culture. 

This work has been a labor of love, for as I have come 
under the power of Wordsworth's strong and pure personality 
— whether in the sacred associations of the class-room, in the 
solitude of the study, or in the inspiring and recreating atmos- 
phere of his beloved Lake-land — he has spoken as a friend 
and companion, not as from some lofty and far-off sphere of 
perfected manhood, but from the common highway of duty 
and responsibility, cheering with the God-speed of one who 
has faced, the same trials and wrestled with the same problems 
that beset our common humanity ; and best of all, he encour- 
ages with the faith which comes to one who lives ever in the 
light of high endeavor. 

It is encouraging to notice the position that English studies 
are occupying in our best schools and colleges : it is one in- 
dication of the return to that ideal and spiritual philosophy 
taught by Wordsworth, Coleridge, Tennyson, and Browning, 
Newman, Robertson, Kingsley, and Maurice, — a philosophy 
in which the facts of human experience were interpreted and 
referred to an order and a world beyond that which the 
senses can reveal. They have looked at life steadily and as 
a whole, and have given to the world ideas which are broader, 
deeper, and more consistent than those of a materialistic phi- 
losophy ; representing no system of education or school of 



PREFACE. XI 

morals, they have taught that all education is a failure which 
does not develop an eye to see and a heart to feel moral, 
artistic, and intellectual excellence. While the professional 
moralists and the doctrinaires have been formulating what 
the world should think and believe, these earnest men, by the 
simplicity and sincerity of their lives, have brought the truths 
of God and the beauties of heaven to the deeper heart of the 
young men of this generation. 

The clear, pure voice of these poets and prophets continues 
to be heard above the incessant din of our modern Babylon, 
calling upon men to live the life of the spirit ; to leave the 
dispute of words for the discernment of things, and declaring 
that not a syllable of God's infinite language can be under- 
stood without a deed. 

'•AH that is, at all, 
Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure ; 
What entered into thee. 
That was, is, and shall be ; 
Time's wheel runs back or stops ; Potter and clay endure." 

These Selections have been chosen after some experience 
in their use with classes, and are, it is hoped, the best repre- 
sentative of the poet's work. If they had been limited to 
those poems which represent his best work, the plan of ex- 
hibiting the growth of Wordsworth's mind and art could not 
have been realized. Wordsworth more than most poets needs 
careful, and even reverential, study ; he wrote so much, and 
his work extends over so many years, that one needs to be 
familiar with the best product of each period of his work — 
dawn, mid-day, and sunset — in order to appreciate the beauty 



xii PREFACE. 

and the variety, the breadth and the intensity, of his contri- 
butions to literature. 

Professor Shairp has said that a thorough and appreciative 
commentary, which should open avenues to the study of 
Wordsworth, and render accessible his imaginative heights 
and his meditative depths, would be a boon to the younger 
part of this generation. With the hope of contributing 
something to the accomplishment of such a result the 
Prelude was published ; a familiarity with that great poem 
is essential to a proper understanding of the influences 
which did so much to shape Wordsworth's career. The 
reception that was accorded that work has encouraged 
me to fulfil the pj'omise then made, that it would be fol- 
lowed by other of his works. Most of the work was done 
in the dehghtful surroundings of the Lake country, and noth- 
ing has been omitted which it was thought would add to the 
understanding or the appreciation of the poems. Words- 
worth's interpreters have been for the most part wise and 
prudent, and the homage which they have paid him has been 
worthy both of them and of him. 

I am greatly indebted to Mr. Aubrey de Vere, who, with Pro- 
fessor Shairp and Matthew Arnold, has merited the gratitude 
of all lovers of poetry in general and of Wordsworth's poetry in 
particular. His kindness in reviewing the list of poems selected, 
his thoughtful suggestions, and his sympathy and encourage- 
ment have added not a little to the pleasure of my work. 

The chronological order has been followed as the only 
suitable one. The Sonnets have been grouped by themselves, 
as it is often desirable to make a study of sonnet literature, 



PREFACE. xiil 

and Wordsworth's Sonnets illustrate a special and distinct 
phase of this work, and are extensive enough to be considered 
separately. 

The text adopted is in every case the poet's last revision. 

As regards annotation, an attempt has been made to sug- 
gest and stimulate rather than to complete. Wordsworth's 
own notes dictated to Miss Fenwick are especially helpful ; 
these are given for the most part in full. Whenever it has 
seemed that a description of the scene connected with a 
given poem would shed light upon it, I have not hesitated 
to introduce it. 

In regard to the use to be made of the notes in class, I 
would say that with the exception of the poet's own, which 
are in the main historical, they should be supplementary, 
never introductory. The pupil should in every case by care- 
ful reading and afterthought form his own ideas first ; for it 
would be better that he should disagree with every interpre- 
tation in the notes, than that he should substitute one of them 
in place of his own thought. Burke says that the method of 
teaching which approaches most nearly to the method of 
investigation is incomparably the best. 

This work is based upon the idea that we should keep 
close to those writers who have enriched the tone and 
expanded the compass of our literature. Is it any wonder 
that there is an escape from the dry class drudgery in " Ele- 
gant Extracts " and " Gems of Poetry " to the forbidden fruit 
of sentimental novel writers, after the mind has been con- 
ducted through the thousand and one writers with no time to 
rest with any? Professor Dowden says: "To submit our- 



XIV PREFACE. 

selves to as many masters as may be counted on the fingers 
of one hand is as much as can really be accomplished in a 
lifetime." 

From the Memoirs of the Poet, and the critical notes in 
the third volume of his Prose Works, I have taken much of 
the material herein contained. To the excellent edition of the 
poems of Wordsworth by Professor Knight, I am indebted 
for the notes from hitherto unpubhshed Journals. 

To the late Mrs. William Wordsworth, of the Stepping 
Stones, Ambleside, whose sickness and death saddened my 
last visit to the Lakes, I am indebted for both information 
and encouragement. 

Of the dates at the head of each poem, the first refers 
to the year of composition, the second to the year of 
pubHcation. 

This work will be followed by The Excursion and The 
White Doe of Ry Is tone. 



A. J. G. 



Brookline, Mass., 
August, 1889. 



NOTE TO SECOND EDITION. 

The "Reverie of Poor Susan," which was by mistake 
omitted from the first edition, will be found upon page 296. 

A. J. G. 



CONTENTS. 



LYRICS, BALLADS, AND ODES; NARRATIVE, REFLEC- 
TIVE, AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 

PAGE 

1786. Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem composed in 

» Anticipation of leaving School i 

1795. Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree 2 

1798. We are Seven 4 

Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman 7 

Lines Written in Early Spring Ii 

To my Sister 12 

Expostulation and Reply 14 

The Tables Turned iq 

Lines Composed a few Miles above Tintern Abbey ... 17 

The Old Cumberland Beggar 22 

Animal Tranquillity and Decay 29 

1799. Nutting 30 

" Strange fits of passion have I known " 32 

" She dwelt among the untrodden ways " 33 

" I travelled among unknown men " 34 

*' Three years she grew in sun and shower " 34 

" A slumber did my spirit seal " 36 

A Poet's Epitaph 37 

Address to the Scholars of the Village School of . . 39 

Matthew 42 

The Two April Mornings 44 

The Fountain 46 

Lucy Gray or, Solitude 49 



XVI CONTENTS. 

1800. " On Nature's invitation do I come " 52 

" Bleak season was it, turbulent and wild " 53 

Hart-Leap Well 54 

The Brothers 62 

" It was an April morning: fresh and dear" 77 

To Joanna 79 

" There is an Eminence, — of these our hills " .... 82 

Michael. A Pastoral Poem 82 

The Waterfall and the Eglantine 99 

The Oak and the Broom. A Pastoral loi 

1801. The Sparrow's Nest 105 

1802. Alice Fell; or, Poverty 106 

Beggars 108 

Written in March no 

" My heart leaps up " in 

The Redbreast Chasing the Butterfly 112 

To a Butterfly (first poem) "113 

To a Butterfly (second poem) 114 

To the Small Celandine (first poem) 115 

To the Same Flower (second poem) 117 

The Leech-Gatherer; or, Resolution and Independence. 119 

A Farewell 125 

Stanzas Written in my Pocket Copy of Thomson's 

"Castle of Indolence" 127 

"The sun has long been set " 130 

To H. C. Six Years Old 131 

To the Daisy (first poem) 132 

On the Same Flower (second poem) 135 

To the Daisy (third poem) 137 

1803. The Green Linnet 138 

Yew-Trees 139 

At the Grave of Burns 141 

Thoughts Suggested the Day Following 144 

To the Sons of Burns 147 

To a Highland Girl 149 

Address to Kilchurn Castle, upon Loch Awe .... 152 

Glen-Almain ; or, The Narrow Glen 154 

Stepping Westward 155 



CONTENTS, xvii 

The Solitary Reaper 156 

Yarrow Unvisited 158 

The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband .... 160 

On Approaching Home 163 

1804. To the Cuckoo 164 

" She was a Phantom of delight " 166 

The Daffodils 167 

The Affliction of Margaret 168 

Address to my Infant Daughter Dora 171 

The Small Celandine (third poem) 174 

1805. Ode to Duty 175 

To a Skylark 177 

Fidelity .".... 178 

Incident Characteristic of a P'avorite Dog 181 

Tribute to the Memory of the Same Dog 182 

" When, to the attractions of a busy world " 184 

Elegiac Stanzas Suggested by a Pictuje of Peele Castle 

in a Storm, Painted by Sir George Beaumont . . . 188 

To the Daisy (fourth poem) 190 

To a Young Lady 193 

1806. Character of the Happy Warrior 194 

Stray Pleasures 197 

"Yes, it was the mountain echo" 198 

Lines Written on the Expected Death of Mr. Fox . . . 199 

Power of Music 201 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality 203 

1807. •' O nightingale ! thou surely art '* 210 

Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle 211 

The Force of Prayer; or, The Founding of Bolton 

Priory 217 

1814. Laodamia 220 

Dion 226 

Composed at Cora Linn, in Sight of Wallace's Tower . 231 

Yarrow Visited 233 

1816. To , On her First Ascent to the Summit of Helvellyn 236 

1817. Ode to Lycoris 238 

The Pass of Kirkstone 240 

Sequel to the " Beggars " 243 



xvill CONTENTS. 

1818. Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary Splendor 

and Beauty 245 

Near the Spring of the Hermitage 248 

1819. September, 1819 249 

1820. The River Duddon. To the Rev. Ur. Wordsworth . . 251 

1823. Memory 254 

To the Lady Fleming 256 

1824. " O dearer far than light and life are dear " 260 

Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian ... 261 

1825. To a Skylark 264 

1826. To May 264 

The Pillar of Trajan 268 

1828. The Wishing-Gate 270 

The Wishing-Gate Destroyed 273 

1830. "In these fair vales hath many a tree '' 276 

1831. The Primrose of the Rock 276 

Yarrow Revisited 278 

On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott 282 

1832. Devotional Incitements 283 

" If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven" . . . 286 

1833. " If this great world of joy and pain" 286 

1834. " Not in the lucid intervals of life " 287 

To a Child. Written in her Album 288 

1835. Written after the Death of Charles Lamb 288 

Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg . 293 

1845. " So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive " 295 

1797. The Reverie of Poor Susan 296 

SONNETS. 

1802. " I grieved for Buonaparte " 299 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 299 

Composed by the Seaside, near Calais, August, 1802 . . 300 

Calais, August, 1802 300 

Composed near Calais, on the Road Leading to Andres, 

August 7, 1802 301 

Calais, August 15, 1802 301 

Composed on the Beach near Calais 302 

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 302 



CONTEA^TS. xix 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture . , , , . 303 

September, 1802, near Dover 303 

Written in London, September, 1S02 304 

London, 1802 „ . 304 

** Great men have been among us " , 305 

" It is not to be thought of that the flood " 305 

" When I have borne in memory what has tamed " . . 306 

1803. Composed at Castle 306 

" There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear "... 307 

October, 1803 307 

" England! the time is come when thou shouldst wean" 308 

To the Men of Kent, October, 1803 308 

In the Pass of Killicranky 309 

1806. " Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room "... 309 

Composed by the Side of Grasmere Lake 310 

" The world is too much with us " 310 

Personal Talk 



Continued ^n 



3" 
31 



Continued 312 

Concluded 312 

To Sleep ti-. 

Continued 313 

Concluded 314 

To the Memory of Raisley Calvert 314 

November, 1806. -^u- 

Admonition ^i^ 

1807. Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland . 316 
To Thomas Clarkson on the Final Passing of the Bill 

for the Abolition of the Slave Trade 316 

1311. " Here pause; the poet claims at least this praise" . . 317 

1815. To B. R. Haydon 317 

To Catherine Wordsworth 318 

1820. Oxford, May 30, 1820 318 

"Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played" . . 319 

Seathwaite Chapel 319 

" Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued " 320 

" Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce " . 320 

Afterthought 321 



XX CONTENTS. 

1821. Introduction to Ecclesiastical Sonnets 321 

Seclusion 322 

Mutability o 322 

Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge .... 323 

Continued 323 

Concluded 324 

1823. •' Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell "... 324 

1827. To Rotha Q 325 

To , in her Seventieth Year 325 

** Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned " . . 326 

1830. To the Author's Portrait 326 

1831. On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott 282 

The Trossachs 327 

The Pibroch's Note 327 

Highland Hut , 328 

To the River Derwent 328 

1833. In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth 329 

Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle . . . 329 

Mary Queen of Scots 330 

" ' There ! ' said the Stripling, pointing with meet pride " 330 

" Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes " 331 

1837. The Pine of Monte Mario, at Rome 331 

1838. Composed on a May Morning, 1838 332 

•* Blest statesman he, whose mind's unselfish will " . . 332 

1841. To a Painter 333 

On the Same Subject 333 

1842. " A Poet 1 — He hath put his heart to school " .... 334 

Notes 22>7 

Index to First Lines - » . 429 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



EXTRACT 



FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN 
ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL. 

1786. — 1815. 

Dear native regions, I foretell, 
From what I feel at this farewell, 
That wheresoe'er my steps may tend, 
And whensoe'er my course shall end, 
If in that hour a single tie 
Survive of local sympathy. 
My soul will cast the backward view, 
The longing look, alone on you. 

Thus, while the sun sinks down to rest 
Far in the regions of the west, 
Though to the vale no parting beam 
Be given, not one memorial gleam, 
A lingering light he fondly throws 
On the dear hills where first he rose. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 



LINES 

LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR 

THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE 

SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT. 

1 795- — 1798- 
Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands 
Far from all human dwelling : what if here 
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb ? 
What if the bee love not these barren boughs ? 
Yet if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves 
That break against the shore shall lull thy mind 
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 

Who he was 

That piled these stones and with the mossy sod 

Fir^t covered, and here taught this aged Tree 10 

With its dark arms to form a circling bovver, 

I well remember. — He was one who owned 

No common soul. In youth by science nursed, 

And led by nature into a wild scene 

Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 

A favored Being, knowing no desire 

Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst the taint 

Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate. 

And scorn, — against all enemies prepared. 

All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 20 

Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once 

With indignation turned himself away, 

And with the food of pride sustained his soul 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 3 

In solitude. — Stranger ! these gloomy boughs 

Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, 

His only visitants a straggling sheep, 

The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper : 

And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, 

And juniper and thistle sprinkled o'er. 

Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 30 

A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 

An emblem of his own unfruitful life : 

And lifting up his head, he then would gaze 

On the more distant scene, — how lovely 'tis 

Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it became 

Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 

The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor that time. 

When Nature had subdued him to herself. 

Would he forget those beings to whose minds. 

Warm from the labors of benevolence, 40 

The world and human life appeared a scene 

Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh. 

Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 

What he must never feel : and so, lost Man ! 

On visionary views would fancy feed. 

Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale 

He died, — this seat his only monument. 

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms 

Of young imagination have kept pure. 

Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know that pride, 50 

Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 

Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 

For any living thing, hath faculties 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Which he has never used ; that thought with him 

Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 

Is ever on himself doth look on one, 

The least of Nature's works, one who might move 

The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 

Unlawful ever. Oh, be wiser, thou ! 

Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ; 60 

True dignity abides with him alone 

Who, in the silent hour of inward thought. 

Can still suspect, and still revere himself. 

In lowliness of heart. 



WE ARE SEVEN. 

1798. — 1798. 



A simple child, 



That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its hfe in every limb, 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage Girl : 
She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 

And she was wildly clad : 10 

Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 

— - Her beauty made me glad. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 5 

" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
How many may you be ? " 
" How many? Seven in all," she said, 
And wondering looked at me. 

"And where are they? I pray you tell." 

She answered, " Seven are we ; 

And two of us at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea. 20 

" Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And in the church-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell. 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little Maid reply, 

" Seven boys and girls are we ; 30 

Two of us in the church-yard lie, 

Beneath the church-yard tree." 

" You run about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the church-yard laid. 
Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
The little Maid replied, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
And they are side by side. 4° 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, — 
And sing a song to them. 

" And often after sunset, Sir, 
When it is hght and fair, 
I take my little porringer. 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was sister Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 5^ 

Till God released her of her pain ; 

And then she went away. 

" So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
And when the grass was dry. 
Together round her grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with snow. 

And I could run and slide. 

My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side." <^o 

" How many are you, then," said I, 
** If they two are in heaven? " 
Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
" O master ! we are seven." 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
Their spirits are in Heaven ! " 
'T was throwing words away ; for still 
The little Maid would have her will, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 



SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN; 

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED, 
1798. — 1798. 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
'Tis said he once was tall. 
Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
A running huntsman merry ; 
And still the centre of his cheek 
Is red as a ripe cherry. 

No man like him the horn could sound. 

And hill and valley rang with glee 10 

When Echo bandied round and round 

The halloo of Simon Lee. 

In those proud days, he little cared 

For husbandry or tillage ; 

To blither tasks did Simon rouse 

The sleepers of the village. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

He all the country could outrun, 

Could leave both man and horse behind ; 

And often, ere the chase was done, 

He reeled, and was stone-bhnd. 20 

And still there 's something in the world 

At which his heart rejoices ; 

For when the chiming hounds are out, 

He dearly loves their voices ! 

But, oh the heavy change ! — bereft 

Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see ! 

Old Simon to the world is left 

In liveried poverty. 

His Master 's dead, — and no one now 

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 30 

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ; 

He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick ; 

His body, dwindled and awry, 

Rests upon ankles swollen and thick ; 

His legs are thin and dry. 

One prop he has, and only one : 

His wife, an aged woman. 

Lives with him, near the waterfall, 

Upon the village Common. 40 

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
Not twenty paces from the door, 
A scrap of land they have, but they 
Are poorest of the poor. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 9 

This scrap of land he from the heath 
Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
But what to them avails the land 
Which he can till no longer ? 

Oft, working by her husband's side, 

Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 5° 

For she, with scanty cause for pride, 

Is stouter of the two. 

And though you with your utmost skill 

From labor could not wean them, 

'T is little, very little — all 

That they can do between them. 

Few months of life has he in store, 

As he to you will tell, 

For still, the more he works, the more 

Do his weak ankles swell. 60 

My gentle Reader, I perceive 

How patiently you 've waited. 

And now I fear that you expect 

Some tale will be related. 

O Reader ! had you in your mind 

Such stores as silent thought can bring, 

O gentle Reader ! you would find 

A tale in everything. 

What more I have to say is short. 

And you must kindly take it : 70 

It is no tale ; but, should you think^ 

Perhaps a tale you '11 make it. 



lO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

One summer day I chanced to see 

This old Man doing all he could 

To unearth the root of an old tree, 

A stump of rotten wood. 

The mattock tottered in his hand \ 

So vain was his endeavor, 

That at the root of the old tree 

He might have worked forever. So 

" You 're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
Give me your tool," to him I said ; 
And at the word right gladly he 
Received my proffered aid. 
I struck, and with a single blow 
The tangled root I severed, 
At which the poor old Man so long 
And vainly had endeavored. 

The tears into his eyes were brought. 

And thanks and praises seemed to run 90 

So fast out of his heart, I thought 

They never would have done. 

— I 've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 

With coldness still returning ; 

Alas ! the gratitude of men 

Hath oftener left me mourning. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 

1798. — 1798. 

I HEARD a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sate reclined, 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran ; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower. 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
And 't is my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 
Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
But the least motion which they made, 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
To catch the breezy air ; 
And I must think, do all I can. 
That there was pleasure there. 



12 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 

If this belief from Heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man ? 



TO MY SISTER. 

1798. — 1798. 

It is the first mild day of March : 
Each minute sweeter than before, 
The redbreast sings from the tall larch 
That stands beside our door. 

There is a blessing in the air, 
Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
And grass in the green field. 

My Sister ! ('t is a wish of mine) 
Now that our morning meal is done. 
Make haste, your morning task resign ; 
Come forth and feel the sun. 

Edward will come with you — and, pray, 
Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 
And bring no book : for this one day 
We '11 give to idleness. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 13 

No joyless forms shall regulate 

Our living calendar : 

We from to-day, my Friend, will date 

The opening of the year. 20 

Love, now a universal birth, 

From heart to heart is stealing, 

From earth to man, from man to earth : 

— It is the hour of feeling. 

One moment now may give us more 
Than years of toiling reason : 
Our minds shall drink at every pore 
The spirit of the season. 

Some silent laws our hearts will make, 

Which they shall long obey : 3° 

We for the year to come may take 

Our temper from to-day. 

And from the blessed power that rolls 
About, below, above. 
We '11 frame the measure of our souls : 
They shall be tuned to love. 

Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray. 
With speed put on your woodland dress ; 

— And bring no book : for this one day 

We '11 give to idleness. 4° 



14 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 

1798.-1798. 

" Why, William, on that old gray stone, 
Thus for the length of half a day, 
Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
And dream your time away? 

" Where are your books ? — that light bequeathed 

To beings else forlorn and blind ! 

Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 

From dead men to their kind. 

" You look round on your Mother Earth, 

As if she for no purpose bore you ; 10 

As if you were her first-born birth, 

And none had lived before you ! " 

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
And thus I made reply : 

" The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 

We cannot bid the ear be still ; 

Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 

Against or with our will. 20 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. T5 

" Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds impress ; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 

" Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
Of things forever speaking, 
That nothing of itself will come, 
But we must still be seeking ? 

" — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone. 
Conversing as I may, 3° 

I sit upon this old gray stone, 
And dream my time away." 



THE TABLES TURNED: 

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
1798. — 1798. 

Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
Or surely you '11 grow double : 
Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 



1 6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Books ! 't is a dull and endless strife : 

Come, hear the woodland linnet, lo 

How sweet his music ! on my life, 

There 's more of wisdom in it. 

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
He, too, is no mean preacher : 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 

Our minds and hearts to bless — 

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health. 

Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20 

One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which 'Nature brings ; 
Our meddling intellect 

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : — 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art ; 

Close up those barren leaves ; 3° 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 17 



LINES, 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISIT- 
ING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, JULY I3, 1 798. 

1798. — 1798. 

Five years have passed ; five summers, with the length 

Of five long winters ! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 

These hedge-rows, — hardly hedge-rows, litde lines 

Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms. 

Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees. 

With some uncertain notice, as might seem 

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 

The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms. 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 



1 8 SELECTIONS FliOM WORDSWORTH. 

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 

But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, , 

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, 

And passing even into my purer mind, 

With tranquil restoration ; — feelings too 3° 

Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps. 

As have no slight or trivial influence 

On that best portion of a good man's life, 

His Utde, nameless, unremembered acts 

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 

To them I may have owed another gift, 

Of aspect more sublime, — that blessed mood, 

In which the burthen of the mystery. 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 

Of all this unintelligible world 40 

Is lightened, — that serene and blessed mood 

In which the affections gently lead us on', — 

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 

And even the motion of our human blood 

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 

In body, and become a hving soul ; 

While with an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 

We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 5° 

In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 9 

Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer through the woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 

And now, with gleams of half- extinguished thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 

The picture of the mind revives again : 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever Nature led : more like a man 70 
Flying from something that he dreads, than one 

Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then 

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 

And their glad animal movements all gone by) 

To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 

What then I was. The sounding cataract 

Haunted me hke a passion ; the tall rock. 

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 

Their colors and their forms, were then to me 

An appetite ; a feeling and a love, So 

That had no need of a remoter charm. 

By thought supplied, nor any interest 

Unborrowed from the eye. — That time .is past, 



20 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And all its aching joys are now no more, 

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 

Have followed ; for such loss, I would beUeve, 

Abundant recompense. For I have learned 

To look on nature, not as in the hour 

Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 9° 

The still, sad music of humanity, 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 

Of something far more deeply interfused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean and the living air, 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 

A motion and a spirit, that impels loo 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods 

And mountains, and of all that we behold 

From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 

Of eye and ear, — both what they half create, 

And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 

In Nature and the language of the sense. 

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul no 

Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 21 

For thou art with me here upon the banks 

Of this fair river — thou, my dearest Friend, 

My dear, dear Friend ! and in thy voice I catch 

The language of my former heart, and read 

My former pleasures in the shooting lights 

Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 

May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 

My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make 

Knowing that Nature never did betray 

The heart that loved her ; 't is her privilege 

Through all the years of this our life, to lead 

From joy to joy : for she can so inform 

The mind that is within us, so impress 

With quietness and beauty, and so feed 

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130 

The dreary intercourse of daily life, 

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 

Shine on thee in thy soHtary walk ; 

And let the misty mountain-winds be free 

To blow against thee : and, in after years, 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then. 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 



22 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 

And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance — 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 

Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 1 5° 

We stood together ; and that I, so long 

A worshipper of Nature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service : rather say 

With warmer love. — oh ! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 

And this green pastoral landscape were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! 



THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 

The Class of Beggars to which the Old Man here described belongs 
will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and mostly old 
and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in 
their neighborhood, and had certain fixed days on which, at different 
houses, they regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but 
mostly in provisions. 

1798.— 1798. 

I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk ; 
And he was seated by the highway side. 
On a low structure of rude masonry 
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 23 

Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 

May thence remount at ease. The aged man 

Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 

That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 

All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 

He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one, 10 

And scanned them with a fixed and serious look 

Of idle computation. In the sun. 

Upon the second step of that small pile. 

Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills. 

He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 

And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, 

That, still attempting to prevent the waste, 

Was baffled still, the crumbs in litde showers 

Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain birds, 

Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 20 

Approached withTn the length of half his staff. 

Him from my childhood have I known ; and then 
He was so old, he seems not older now. 
He travels on, a solitary man. 
So helpless in appearance, that for him 
The sauntering horseman throws not with a slack 
And careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
But stops, — that he may safely lodge the coin 
Within the old man's hat ; nor quits him so. 
But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 30 

Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends 
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 



24 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, 

And Hfts the latch for him that he may pass. 

The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 

The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 

Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warned, 

The old man does not change his course, the boy 40 

Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, 

And passes gently by, without a curse 

Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 

He travels on, a solitary man ; 
His age has no companion. On the ground 
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along. 
They move along the ground ; and, evermore, 
Instead of common and habitual sight 
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale 
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 50 

Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, 
Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground, 
He plies his weary journey ; seeing still. 
And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, 
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track. 
The nails of cart or chariot- wheel have left 
Impressed on the white road, — in the same line, 
At distance still the same. Poor traveller ! 
His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet 
Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still 60 

In look and motion that the cottage curs. 
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away. 
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls. 
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 25 

And urchins newly breeched — all pass him by ; 
Him even the slow-paced wagon leaves behind. 

But deem not this man useless. — Statesmen ! ye 
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye 
Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud, 70 

Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate 
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not 
A burden of the earth ! 'T is Nature's law 
That none, the meanest of created things, 
, Of forms created the most vile and brute, 
The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
Divorced from good, — a spirit and pulse of good, 
A Hfe and soul, to every mode of being 
Inseparably linked. Then be assured 
That least of all can aught, that ever owned 80 

The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime 
Which man is born to, sink, howe'er depressed, 
So low as to be scorned without a sin ; 
Without offence to God cast out of view, 
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement 
Worn out and worthless. While from door to door 
This old man creeps, the villagers in him 
Behold a record which together binds 
Past deeds and offices of charity, 90 

Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years. 
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives. 
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 



26 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
Among the farms and solitary huts, 
Hamlets and thinly scattered villages, 
Where'er the aged Beggar takes his round, 
The mild necessity of use compels 
To acts of love, and habit does the work 
Of reason, yet prepares that after-joy 
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, 
Doth find herself insensibly disposed 
To virtue and true goodness. 

Some there are. 
By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
And meditative, authors of delight 
And happiness, which to the end of time 
Will live, and spread, and kindle : even such minds 
In childhood, from this solitary being. 
Or from like wanderer, haply have received 
(A thing more precious far than all that books 
Or the solicitudes of love can do !) 
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought. 
In which they found their kindred with a world 
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man 
Who sits at his own door, and, like the pear 
That overhangs his head from the green wall, 
Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young. 
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 
Sheltered, and flourish in a litde grove 
Of their own kindred, — all behold in him 
A silent monitor, which on their minds 
Must needs impress a transitory thought 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 27 

Of self-congratulation, to the heart 

Of each recalling his peculiar boons, 

His charters and exemptions ; and, perchance, 

Though he to no one give the fortitude 

And circumspection needful to preserve 

His present blessings, and to husband up 130 

The respite of the season, he, at least, 

And 't is no vulgar service, makes them felt. 

Yet further. — Many, I believe, there are 
Who live a life of virtuous decency, 
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 
No self-reproach ; who of the moral law 
Established in the land where they abide 
Are strict observers ; and not negligent 
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, 
Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 140 

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace ! 

— But of the poor man ask, the abject poor ; 
Go, and demand of him, if there be here, 

In this cold abstinence from evil deeds. 

And these inevitable charities, 

Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? 

No, man is dear to man ; the pooresl^poor 

Long for some moments in a weary life 

When they can know and feel that they have been, 

Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out 15° 

Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such 

As needed kindness, for this single cause. 

That we have all of us one human heart. 

— Such pleasure is to one kind being known, 



28 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

My neighbor, when with punctual care each week, 

Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself 

By her own wants, she from her store of meal 

Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 

Of this old mendicant, and from her door 

Returning with exhilarated heart, i6o 

Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. 

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
And while, in that vast solitude to which 
The tide of things has borne him, he appears 
To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
The good which the benignant law of Heaven 
Has hung around him ; and while life is his, 
Still let hij-n prompt the unlettered villagers 
To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 170 

— Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
And long as he can wander, let him breathe 
The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath 
Beat his gray locks against his withered face. 
Reverence th^ hope whose vital anxiousness 
Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
May never House, misnamed of Industry, 
Make him a captive ! — for that pent-up din, 180 

Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air. 
Be his the natural silence of old age ! 
Let him be free of mountain solitudes. 
And have around him, whether heard or not, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 29 

The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 

Few are his pleasures : if his eyes have now 

Been doomed so long to settle upon earth 

That not without some effort they behold 

The countenance of the horizontal sun, 

Rising or setting, let the light at least 190 

Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 

And let him, where and whe?i he will, sit down 

Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank 

Of highway side, and with the little birds 

Share his chance-gathered meal ; and, finally, 

As in the eye of Nature he has lived, 

So in the eye of Nature let him die ! 



ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. 

1798.— 1798. 

The little hedge -row birds. 
That peck along the road, regard him not. 
He travels on, and in his face, his step, 
His gait, his one expression, — every limb, 
His look and bending figure, all bespeak 
A man who does not move with pain, but moves 
With thought. He is insensibly subdued 
To settled quiet ; he is one by whom 
All effort seems forgotten ; one to whom 
Long patience hath such mild composure given 
That patience now doth seem a thing of which 
He hath no need. He is by Nature led 
To peace so perfect that the young behold 
With envy what the old man hardly feels. 



30 SELECTIONS' FROM WORDSWORTH. 

NUTTING. 

1799. — iSoo. 



It seems a day 

(I speak of one from many singled out), 

One of those heavenly days that cannot die ; 

When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 

I left our cottage threshold, sallying forth 

With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 

A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my step 

Toward some far-distant wood, a figure quaint. 

Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds. 

Which for that service had been husbanded, " 10 

By exhortation of my frugal dame, — 

Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth, 

More ragged than need was ! O'er pathless rocks. 

Through beds of matted fern and tangled thickets, 

Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 

Unvisited, where not a broken bough 

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 

Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 

Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 20 

A virgin scene ! A little while I stood. 

Breathing with such suppression of the heart 

As joy delights in ; and with wise restraint, 

Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 

The banquet ; or beneath the trees I sate 

Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played, — 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 3 1 

A temper known to those who, after long 

And weary expectation, have been blest 

With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 

Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 30 

The violets of five seasons reappear 

And fade, unseen by any human eye : 

Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 

Forever ; and I saw the sparkling foam, 

And, with my cheek on one of those green stones 

That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, 

Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, 

I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 

In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 

Tribute to ease ; and of its joy secure, 40 

The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 

Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones. 

And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 

And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 

And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook 

Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 

Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 

Their quiet being : and unless I now 

Confound my present feelings with the past, 

Ere from che mutilated bower I turned 50 

Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 

I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 

The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky. 

Then, dearest maiden, move along these shades 

In gendeness of heart ; with gentle hand 

Touch, — for there is a spirit in the woods. 



32 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

''STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN." 

1799. — iSoo. 

Strange fits of passion have I known ; 
And I will dare to tell, 
But in the lover^s ear alone, 
What once to me befell. 

When she I loved looked every day 
Fresh as a rose in June, 
I to her cottage bent my way, 
Beneath an evening moon. 

Upon the moon I fixed my eye, 
All over the wide lea ; ic 

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 
Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reached the orchard-plot ; 
And as we climbed the hill, 
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
Came near, and nearer still. 

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 

Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 

And all the while my eyes I kept 

On the descending moon. 2c 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. Z'S 

My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
He raised, and never stopped : 
When down behind the cottage-roof, 
At once, the bright moon dropped. 

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 

Into a lover's head ! 

" O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 

" If Lucy should be dead ! " 



"SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN 
WAYS." 

1 799. — 1 800. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown,. and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me ! 
3 



34 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN." 
1799. — 1800. 

I TRAVELLED among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea ; 
Nor, England ! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 

*T is past, that melancholy dream ! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time ; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire ; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, 
The bowers where Lucy played ; 

And thine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 



"THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND 
SHOWER." 

1 799. — 1 800. 

Three years she grew in sun and shower. 
Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 35 

This Child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A Lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse ; and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, lo 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm. 
Of mute insensate things. 

" The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her ; for her the willow bend ; 20 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 3° 



36 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 
Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 

How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 40 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 



"A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL. 
1799. — 1800. 

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 

I had no human fears : 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force ; 

She neither hears nor sees ; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course. 

With rocks and stones and trees. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 37 

A POET'S EPITAPH. 

1799. — 1800. 

Art thou a Statist, in the van 
Of pubHc conflicts trained and bred ? 
— First learn to love one living man ; 
Then may'st thou think upon the dead. 

A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 
Go, carry to some fitter place 
The keenness of that practised eye, 
The hardness of that sallow face. 

Art thou a Man of purple cheer ? 

A rosy Man, right plump to see ? 10 

Approach ; yet, Doctor, not too near, 

This grave no cushion is for thee. 

Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
A Soldier and no man of chaff ? 
Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
And lean upon a peasant's staff. 

Physician art thou ? one all eyes, 

Philosopher ! a fingering slave, 

One that would peep and botanize 

Upon his mother's grave ? 20 

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
Oh turn aside, and take, I pray, 



38 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

That he below may rest in peace, 
Thy ever-dwindling soul away ! 

A Moralist perchance appears ; 
Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod : 
And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
Himself his world, and his own God ; 

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling 
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ; 30 

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing. 
An intellectual All-in-all ! 

Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; 
Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
Near this unprofitable dust. 

But who is He, with modest looks. 

And clad in homely russet brown ? 

He murmurs near the running brooks 

A music sweeter than their own. 40 

He is retired as noontide dew, 
Or fountain in a noon-day grove ; 
And you must love him, ere to you 
He will seem worthy of your love. 

The outward shows of sky and earth, 
Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; 
And impulses of deeper birth 
Have come to him in solitude. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 39 

In common things that round us lie 

Some random truths he can impart, — 50 

The harvest of a quiet eye 

That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 

But he is weak ; both man and boy, 
Hath been an idler in the land ; 
Contented if he might enjoy 
The things which others understand. 

— Come hither in thy hour of strength ; 

Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 

Here stretch thy body at full length ; 

Or build thy house upon this grave ! 60 



ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VH.LAGE 
SCHOOL OF . 

1799. — 1845. 

I COME, ye little noisy crew, 

Not long your pastime to prevent : 

I heard the blessing which to you , 

Our common Friend and Father sent. 

I kissed his cheek before he died ; 

And when his breath was fled, 

I raised, while kneeling by his side, 

His hand — it dropped like lead. 

Your haqds, dear Little-ones, do all 



40 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

That can be done, will never fall lo 

Like his till they are dead. 

By night or day, blow foul or fair, 

Ne'er will the best of all your train 

Play with the locks of his white hair 

Or stand between his knees again. 

Here did he sit confined for hours ; 
But he could see the woods and plains, 
Could hear the wind and mark the showers 
Come streaming down the streaming panes. 
Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound 20 

He rests a prisoner of the ground. 
He loved the breathing air, 
He loved the sun, but if it rise 
Or set, to him where now he lies, 
Brings not a moment's care. 
Alas ! what idle words ; but take 
The Dirge which for our Master's sake 
And yours, love prompted me to make. 
The rhymes so homely in attire 

With learned ears may ill agree, 30 

But chanted by your Orphan Quire 
Will make a touching melody. 

DIRGE. 

Mourn, shepherd, near thy old gray stone j 
Thou angler, by the silent flood ; 
And mourn when thou art all alone, 
Thou woodman, in the distant wood ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 41 

Thou one blind sailor, rich in joy 

Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum ; 

And mourn, thou poor half-witted boy ! 

Born deaf, and hving deaf and dumb. 40 

Thou drooping sick man, bless the Guide 
Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth, 
As he before had sanctified 
Thy infancy with heavenly truth. 

Ye striplings, light of heart and gay. 

Bold settlers on some foreign shore, 

Give, when your thoughts are turned this way, 

A sigh to him whom we deplore. 

For us who here in funeral strain 

With one accord our voices raise, 5° 

Let sorrow overcharged with pain 

Be lost in thankfulness and praise. 

And when our hearts shall feel a sting 
From ill we meet or good we miss, 
May touches of his memory bring 
Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. 



'C)J 



BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER. 

Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat ; 

But benefits, his gift, we trace — 

Expressed in every eye we meet 

Round this dear Vale, his native place. 60 



42 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

To Stately hall and cottage rude 
Flowed from his life what still they hold, — 
Light pleasures, every day renewed, 
And blessings half a century old. 

O true of heart, of spirit gay. 
Thy faults, where not already gone 
From memory, prolong their stay 
For charity's sweet sake alone. 

Such solace find we for our loss ; 

And what beyond this thought we crave 70 

Comes in the promise from the Cross, 

Shining upon thy happy grave. 



MATTHEW. 

1 799. — 1 800. 

If Nature, for a favorite child, 
In thee hath tempered so her clay, 
That every hour thy heart runs wild, 
Yet never once doth go astray, 

Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
In such diversity of hue 
Its history of two hundred years. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 43 

— When through this little wreck of fame, 
Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 10 
Has travelled down to Matthew's name, 

Pause with no common sympathy. 

And if a sleeping tear should wake, ~ 

Then be it neither checked nor stayed : 
For Matthew a request I make 
Which for himself he had not made. 

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 

Is silent as a standing pool ; 

Far from the chimney's merry roar, 

And murmur of the village school. 20 

The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
Of still and serious thought went round. 
It seemed as if he drank it up — 
He felt with spirit so profound. 

— Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 

Thou happy soul ! and can it be 3° 

That these two words of glittering gold 
Are all that must remain of thee ? 



44 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 

1799. — 1800. 

We walked along, while bright and red 
Uprose the morning sun ; 
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, 
" The will of God be done ! " 

A village schoolmaster was he. 
With hair of glittering gray ; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
On a spring holiday. 

And on that morning, through the grass, 
And by the steaming rills, 
We travelled merrily, to pass 
A day am.ong the hills. 

" Our work," said I, " was well begun ; 
Then, from thy breast what thought. 
Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
So sad a sigh was brought? " 

A second time did Matthew stop, 
And fixing still his eye 
Upon the eastern mountain-top. 
To me he made reply : 

" Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 45 

A day like this which I have left 
Full thirty years behind. 

" And just above yon slope of corn 
Such colors, and no other, 
Were in the sky that April morn, 
Of this the very brother. 

" With rod and lime I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave, 3° 

And, to the church-yard come, stopped short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 

" Nine summers had she scarcely seen. 
The pride of all the vale ; 
And then she sang, — she would have been 
A very nightingale. 

*' Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 

And yet I loved her more, 

For so it seemed, than till that day 

I e'er had loved before. 4° 

*' And turning from .her grave, I met, 
Beside the church-yard yew, 
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of morning dew. 

** A basket on her head she bare ; 
Her brow was smooth and white : 
To see a child so very fair. 
It was a pure delight ! 



46 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

" No fountain from its rocky cave 

E'er tripped with foot so free ; So 

She seemed as happy as a wave 

That dances on the sea. 

*' There came from me a sigh of pain 
Which I could ill confine ; 
I looked at her, and looked again : 
And did not wish her mine ! " 

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 

Methinks, I see him stand, 

As at that moment, with a bough 

Of wilding in his hand. 60 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

A CONVERSATION. 
1799. — 1800. 

We talked with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true, 
A pair of friends, though I was young, 
And Matthew seventy-two. 

/ 
We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the turf a fountain broke, 
And gurgled at our feet. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 47 

" Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match 

This water's pleasant tune 10 

With some old border-song, or catch 

That suits a summer's noon ; 

" Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
Sing here beneath the shade, 
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
Which you last April made ! " 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 

The spring beneath the tree ; 

And thus the dear old man replied, 

The gray-haired man of glee : 20 

" No check, no stay, this streamlet fears ; 
How merrily it goes ! 
'T will murmur on a thousand years, 
And flow as now it flows. 

" And here, on this delightful day, 
I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
Beside this fountain's brink. 

" My eyes are dim with childish tears, 

My heart is idly stirred, 30 

For the same sound is in my ears 

Which in those days I heard. 

" Thus fares it still in our decay : 
And yet the wiser mind 



48 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Mourns less for what age takes away 
Than what it leaves behind. 

" The blackbird amid leafy trees, 

The lark above the hill, 

Let loose their carols when they please. 

Are quiet when they will. 40 

" With Nature never do they wage 
A foolish strife ; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free ; 

" But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
And often, glad no more, 
We wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

" If there be one who need bemoan ^ 

His kindred laid in earth, 5° 

The household hearts that were his own, 

It is the man of mirth. 

*' My days, my friend, are almost gone, 
My life has been approved. 
And many love me ; but by none 
Am I enough beloved." 

" Now both himself and me he wrongs, 

The man who thus complains ! 

I live and sing my idle songs 

Upon these happy plains ; 60 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 49 

" And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
I '11 be a son to thee ! " 
At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
" Alas ! that cannot be." 

We rose up from the fountain-side, 
And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 
And through the wood we went ; 

And ere we came to Leonard's rock 

He sang those witty rhymes 7° 

About the crazy old church- clock, 

And the bewildered chimes. 



LUCY GRAY; 

OR, SOLITUDE. 
1799. — 1800. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ; 
And when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
— The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door ! 
4 



50 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 

The hare upon the green ; lo 

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 

Will never more be seen. 

" To-night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go ; 
And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

'' That, Father ! will I gladly do : 

'T is scarcely afternoon — 

The minster-clock has just struck two, 

And yonder is the moon ! " 20 

At this the father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band ; 
He pHed his work ; and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe : 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 

She wandered up and down ; 3° 

And many a hill did Lucy climb. 

But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 51 

But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor ; 

And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 

A furlong from their door. 40 

They wept, and turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet ; " 

— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge. 
And by the long stone-wall. 

And then an open field they crossed : 

The marks were still the same ; 50 

They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 

And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank ; 
And further there were none ! 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 

Upon the lonesome wild. 60 



52 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 



ON NATURE'S INVrFATION DO I COME." 

1800. — 1850. 

On Nature's invitation do I come, 

By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead. 

That made the calmest, fairest spot on earth. 

With all its unappropriated good, 

My own ; and not mine only, for with me 

Entrenched — say rather peacefully embowered — 

Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, 

A younger orphan of a name extinct. 

The only daughter of my parents, dwells : 

Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir ; 10 

Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame 

No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. 

Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God 

For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then 

Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er 

Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind 

Take pleasure in the midst of haj^py thought, 

But either she, whom now I have, who now 

Divides with me that loved abode, was there. 

Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned, 20 

Her voice was like a hidden bird that sansj ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTIL 53 

The thought of her was hke a flash of light, 

Or an unseen companionship ; a breath 

Or fragrance independent of the wind. 

In all my goings, in the new and old 

Of all my meditations, and in this 

Favorite of all, in this the most of all. . . . 

Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in. 

Now in the clear and open day I feel 

Your guardianship : I take it to my heart ; 30 

'T is like the solemn shelter of the night. 

But I would call thee beautiful ; for mild 

And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art, 

Dear valley, having in thy face a smile, 

Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased, 

Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy lake, 

Its one green island, and its winding shores. 

The multitude of little rocky hills. 

Thy church, and cottages of mountain stone 

Clustered like stars some {q,v^, but single most, 40 

And lurking dimly in their shy retreats. 

Or glancing at each other cheerful looks 

Like separated stars with clouds between. 



BLEAK SEASON WAS IT, TURBULENT AND 
WILD." 

i8oo(?). — 1850. 

Bleak season was it, turbulent and wild. 
When hitherward we journeyed, side by side. 
Through bursts of sunshine and through flying showers, 



54 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Paced the long vales, — how long they were, and yet 

How fast that length of way was left behind ! — 

Wensley's rich dale, and Sedberge's naked heights. 

The frosty wind, as if to make amends 

For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, 

And drove us onward as two ships at sea ; 

Or like two birds, companions in mid-air, lo 

Parted and reunited by the blast. 

Stern was the face of Nature ; we rejoiced 

In that stern countenance ; for our souls thence drew 

A feeling of their strength. 

The naked trees, 
The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared 
To question us, "Whence come ye, to what end? " 



HART-LEAP WELL. 

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from 
Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads 
from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable 
Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken 
of in the second part of the following Poem, which monuments do 
now exist as I have there described them. 

1800. — 1800. 

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud. 
And now, as he approached a vassal's door, 
" Bring forth another horse ! " he cried aloud. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 55 

" Another horse ! " — That shout the vassal heard, 
And saddled his best steed, a comely gray ; 
Sir Walter mounted him : he was the third 
Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ; 

The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; lo 

But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 

There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; 
But horse and man are vanished, one and all ; 
Such race, I think, was never seen before. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind. 
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind. 
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 20 

The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on 
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern : 
But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, 
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race, 
The bugles that so joyfully were blown? 
— This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ; 
Sir Walter and the hart are left alone. 

The poor hart toils along the mountain-side ; 

I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 2P 



56 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Nor will I mention by what death he died ; 
But now the knight beholds him lying dead. 

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ; 
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy ; 
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, 
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, 

Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat, 

Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned. 

And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 40 

Upon his side the hart was lying stretched : 

His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill. 

And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched 

The waters of the spring were trembling still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest, 

(Never had living man such joyful lot !) 

Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, 

And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 

And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found 50 

Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now 
Such sight was never seen by human eyes : 
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 57 

" I '11 build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 

And a small arbor made for rural joy ; 

'T will be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 

A place of love for damsels that are coy. 60 

" A cunning artist will I have to frame 

A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 

And they who do make mention of the same, 

From this day forth shall call it Hart-Leap Well. 

" And, gallant stag ! to make thy praises known, 
Another monument shall here be raised ; 
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone. 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 

" And in the summer-time when days are long, 

I will come hither with my paramour ; 70 

And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 

We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 

" Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
My mansion with its arbor shall endure, — 
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure ! " 

Then home he went, and left the hart stone-dead, 
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. 
— Soon did the Knight perform what he had said ; 
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 80 

Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, 
A cup of stone received the living well ; 



58 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, 
And built a house of pleasure in the dell. 

And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
With traihng plants and trees were intertwined, 
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 

And thither, when the summer days were long, 

Sir Walter led his wondering paramour ; 90 

And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 

Made merriment within that pleasant bower. 

The knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
And there is matter for a second rhyme, 
And I to this would add another tale. 

PART SECOND. 

The moving accident is not my trade ; 

To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : 

'T is my delight, alone in summer shade. 

To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 100 

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
Three aspens at three corners of a square ; 
And one, not four yards distant, near a well. 

What this imported I could ill divine : 
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 59 

I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head ; 

Half wasted the square mound of tawny green ; i lo 

So that you just might say, as then I said, 

" Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 

I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 
And Nature here were willing to decay. 

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 

When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired. 

Came up the hollow : him did I accost, 

And what this place might be I then inquired. i-o 

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed ; 
" A jolly place," said he, " in time of old ! 
But something ails it now : the spot is curst. 

" You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood — 
Some say that they are beeches, others elms — 
These were the bower ; and here a mansion stood, 
The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 

" The arbor does its own condition tell ; 

You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream : 13° 

But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well 

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 



6o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

'• There 's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, 
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 
TJiis water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 

" Some say that here a murder has been done. 
And blood cries out for blood ; but, for my part, 
I 've guessed, when I 've been sitting in the sun. 
That it was all for that unhappy hart. 



140 



" What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past ! 

Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, 

Are but three bounds — and look. Sir, at this last — 

O Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 

" For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
What cause the hart might have to love this place, 
And come and make his death-bed near the well. 

" Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 

Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide ; 150 

This water was perhaps the first he drank 

When he had wandered from his mother's side. 

" In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 

" Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 
The sun on drearier hollow never shone ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 6i 

So will it be, as I have often said, 

Till trees and stones and fountain, all are gone." i6o 

" Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; 
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine : 
This beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 
His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 

" The Being that is in the clouds and air, 
That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
Maintains a deep and reverential care 
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 

" The pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before. 
This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 170 

But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 

" She leaves these objects to a slow decay. 
That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 
But at the coming of the milder day. 
These monuments shall all be overgrown. 

*' One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide. 

Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals ; 

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." iSo 



62 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

THE BROTHERS. 

1800. — 1800. 

" These tourists, heaven preserve us ! needs must live 

A profitable life : some glance along, 

Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 

And they were butterflies to wheel about 

Long as the summer lasted ; some, as wise, 

Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, 

Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, 

Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, 

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles. 

Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn. i< 

But, for that moping son of idleness, 

Why can he tarry yo7ider ? In our church-yard 

Is neither epitaph nor monument, 

Tombstone nor name, — only the turf we tread 

And a few natural graves." 

To Jane, his wife, 
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
It was a July evening ; and he sate 
Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves 
Of his old cottage, as it chanced, that day. 
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone 2c 

His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, 
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire. 
He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
Who, in the open air, with due accord 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 63 

Of busy hands and back- and- forward steps, 

Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field 

In which the parish chapel stood alone, 

Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 

While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 

Many a long look of wonder ; and at last, 3° 

Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 

Of carded wool which the old man had piled, 

He laid his implements with gentle care. 

Each in the other locked ; and down the path 

That from his cottage to the church-yard led. 

He took his way, impatient to accost 

The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 

'T was one well known to him in former days, — 
A shepherd-lad, who ere his sixteenth year 
Had left that calling, tempted to intrust 4° 

His expectations to the fickle winds 
And perilous waters, with the mariners 
A fellow-mariner ; and so had fared 
Through twenty seasons ; but he had been reared 
Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 
Oft in the piping shrOuds had Leonard heard 
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
Of caves and trees ; and when the regular wind 
Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 50 

And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, 
Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 



64 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 

And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam 

Flashed round him images and hues, that wrought 

In union with the employment of his heart, 

He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 

Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 60 

Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 

Saw mountains ; saw the forms of sheep that grazed 

On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees, 

And shepherds clad in the same country gray 

Which he himself had worn. 

And now, at last, 
From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
To his paternal home he is returned, 
With a determined purpose to resume 
The life he had lived there ; both for the sake 70 

Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
Which to an only brother he has borne 
In all his hardships, since that happy time 
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. 
— They were the last of all their race : and now. 
When Leonard had approached his home, his heart 
Failed in him ; and, not venturing to inquire 
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved. 
He to the solitary church-yard turned ; 80 

That, as he knew in what particular spot 
His family were laid, he thence might learn 
If still his brother lived, or to the file 
Anotlier grave was added. He had found 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 65 

Another grave, near which a full half-hour 

He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew 

Such a confusion in his memory. 

That he began to doubt, and even to hope 

That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 

That it was not another grave, but one 90 

He had forgotten. He had lost his path. 

As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 

Through fields which once had been well known to him ; 

And oh, w4iat joy this recollection now 

Sent to his heart ! He lifted up his eyes, 

And looking round, imagined that he saw 

Strange alteration wrought on every side 

Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks 

And everlasting hills themselves were changed. 

By this the Priest, who down the field had come, 100 
Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate 
Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
Perused him with a gay complacency. 
Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
'T is one of those who needs must leave the path 
Of the world's business to go wild alone : 
His arms have a perpetual hohday ; 
The happy man will creep about the fields. 
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
Tears down his cheek, or sohtary smiles no 

Into his face, until the setting sun 
Write fool upon his forehead. — Planted thus 
Beneath a shed that overarched the gate 
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared 

5 



66 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

The good Man might have communed with himself, 

But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, 

Approached ; he recognized the Priest at once. 

And after greetings interchanged, and given 

By Leonard to the Yicar as to one 

Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 120 

Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life : 
Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 
And welcome gone, they are so like each other. 
They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral 
Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months ; 
And yet some changes must take place among you : 
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, 
Can trace the finger of mortality. 

And see, that with our threescore years and ten 130 

We are not all that perish. I remember, 
(For many years ago I passed this road) 
There was a foot-way all along the fields 
By the brook-side, — 't is gone ! — and that dark cleft ! 
To me it does not seem to wear the face 
Which then it had ! 

Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know. 

That chasm is much the same — 

Leonard. But, surely, yonder — 

Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend 
That does not play you false. On that tall pike 
(It is the lonehest place of all these hills) 140 

There were two springs which bubbled side by side, 
As if they had been made that they might be 
Companions for each other : the huge crag 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 67 

Was rent with lightning, — one hath disappeared j 

The other, left behind, is flowing still. 

For accidents and changes such as these 

We want not store of them : — a water-spout 

Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast 

For folks that wander up and down like you. 

To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 150 

One roaring cataract ! A sharp May-storm 

Will come with loads of January snow, 

And in one night send twenty score of sheep 

To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies 

By some untoward death among the rocks ; 

The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge ; 

A wood is felled. — And then for our own homes ! 

A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, 

A daughter sent to service, a web spun, 

The old house-clock is decked with a new face ; 160 

And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 

To chronicle the time, we all have here 

A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, 

For the whole dale, and one for each fireside — 

Yours was a stranger's judgment : for historians. 

Commend me to these valleys ! 

Leo7iard. Yet your Church-yard 

Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 
To say that you are heedless of the past : 
An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
Here 's neither head nor foot stone, plate of brass, 170 
Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state 
Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man's home 
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 



68 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that 's new to me ! 
The stone-cutters, 't is true, might beg their bread 
If every Enghsh church-yard were hke ours ; 
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
We talk about the dead by our firesides. 
And then, for our immortal part ! lac want iSo 

No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 
The thought of deatli sits easy on the man 
Who has been born and dies among the mountains, 

Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's 
thoughts 
Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
You, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves ? 

Priest. For eightscore winters past. 

With what I Ve witnessed, and with what I 've heard. 
Perhaps I might ; and on a winter-evening. 
If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 190 

By turning o'er these hillocks one by one. 
We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round ; 
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
Now there 's a grave, — your foot is half upon it, — 
It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 
Died broken-hearted. 

LeoimrJ. 'Tis a common case. 

We '11 take another : who is he that lies 
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves ? 
It touches on that piece of native rock 
Left in the church-yard wall. 

Priest. I'iiat 's Walter Ewbank. ^co 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 69 

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 

As ever were produced by youth and age 

Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 

Through five long generations had the heart 

Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds 

Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 

You see it yonder — and those few green fields. 

They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son, 

Each struggled, and each yielded as before 

A little, yet a little ; and old Walter, 210 

They left to him the family heart, and land 

With other burdens than the crop it bore. 

Year after year the old man still kept up 

A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond, 

Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank, 

And went into his grave before his time. 

Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred him 

God only knows, but to the very last 

He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 

His pace was never that of an old man : 220 

I almost see him tripping down the path 

With his two grandsons after him. But you, 

Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, 

Have far to travel ; and on these rough paths 

Even in the longest day of midsummer — 

Leonard. But those two Orphans ! 

Priest. Orphans ! Such they were — 

Yet not while Walter lived ; for, though their parents 
Lay buried side by side as now they lie. 
The old man was a father to the boys, — r 
Two fathers in one father ; and if tears, 230 



70 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Shed when he talked of them where they were not, 

And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 

Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, 

This old Man, in the day of his old age, 

Was half a mother to them. If you weep. Sir, 

To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 

Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred ! 

Ay, you may turn that way, — it is a grave 

Which will bear looking at. 

Leonard. These boys — I hope 

They loved this good old Man ? — 

Priest, They did, and truly ; 240 

But that was what we almost overlooked, 
They were such darlings of each other. Yes, 
Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, 
The only kinsman near them, and though he 
Inclined to both by reason of his age, 
With a more fond, familiar tenderness ; 
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, 
And it all went into each other's hearts. 
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 
Was two years taller : 't was a joy to see, 250 

To hear, to meet them ! From their house the school 
Is distant three short miles, and in the time 
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 
And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet. 
Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained 
At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, 
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 7 1 

On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, 260 

Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, 
Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 
Upon the hither side ; and once I said. 
As I remember, looking round these rocks 
And hills on which we all of us were born, 
That God who made the great book of the world 
Would bless such piety — 

Leonard. It may be then — 

Priest. Never did worthier lads break English bread j 
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, 
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 270 

Could never keep those boys away from church, 
Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. 
Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
That venturous foot could reach, to one or both 
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. 
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; 
They played like two young ravens on the crags : 
Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as well 
As many of their betters — and for Leonard ! 280 

The very night before he went away, 
In my own house I put into his hand 
A Bible, and I 'd wager house and field 
That, if he be alive, he has it yet. 

Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be 
A comfort to each other — 

Priest, That they might 

Live to such end is what both old and young 
In this our valley all of us have wished, 



72 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And what, for my part, I have often prayed : 

But Leonard — 

Leonard. Then James still is left among you ! 290 

Priest. 'T is of the elder brother I am speaking : 

They had an uncle ; he was at that time 

A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas ; 

And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 

Leonard had never handled rope or shroud ; 

For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; 

And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 

His soul was knit to this his native soil. 

But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 

To strive with such a torrent ; when he died, 300 

The estate and house were sold ; and all their sheep, 

A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, 

Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years. 

Well — all was gone, and they were destitute ; 

And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, 

Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 

Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. 

If there were one among us who had heard 

That Leonard Ewbank was come home again. 

From the Great Gavel,^ down by Leeza's banks, 310 

And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 

The day would be a joyous festival ; 

And those two bells of ours, which there you see — 

Hanging in the open air — But, O good Sir ! 

* The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to 
the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland 
mountains. The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Enner- 
dale. — W. W. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 73 

This is sad talk ; they '11 never sound for him — 

Living or dead. When last we heard of him, 

He was in slavery among the Moors 

Upon the Barbary coast. 'T was not a litde 

That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt, 

Before it endeth in his death, the Youth 320 

Was sadly crossed. Poor Leonard ! when we parted, 

He took me by the hand, and said to me. 

If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, 

To live in peace upon his father's land. 

And lay his bones among us. 

Leo7iard. If that day 

Should come, 't would needs be a glad day for him ; 
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
As any that should meet him — 

Priest. Happy ! Sir — 

Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their graves. 
And that he had one Brother — 

Priest. That is but ZZ^ 

A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate ; 
And Leonard being always by his side 
Had done so many offices about him, 
That, though he was not of a timid nature, 
Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy 
In him was somewhat checked ; and when his Brother 
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone. 
The little color that he had was soon 

Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and 
pined — 34° 

Leonard. But these arc all the graves of full-grown men ! 



74 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away : we took him to us ; 
He was the child of all the dale, — he lived 
Three months with one, and six months with another, 
And wanted neither food nor clothes nor love ; 
And many, many happy days were his. 
But, whether blithe or sad, 't is my belief 
His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
And when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 
(A practice till this time unknown to him) 35° 

That often, rising from his bed at night, 
He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping 
He sought his brother Leonard. — You are moved ! 
Forgive me, Sir : before I spoke to you, 
I judged you most unkindly. 

Leonard. But this Youth, 

How did he die at last ? 

Priest. One sweet May morning 

(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) 
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, 
With two or three companions, whom their course 
Of occupation led from height to height 360' 

Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length, 
Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
The humor of the moment, lagged behind. 
You see yon precipice : it wears the shape 
Of a vast building made of many crags ; 
And in the midst is one particular rock 
That rises like a column from the vale. 
Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar. 
Upon its aery summit crowned with heath, 
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, 370 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 75 

Lay stretched at ease ; but passing by the place 

On their return, they found that he was gone. 

No ill was feared ; till one of them by chance 

Entering, when evening was far spent, the house 

Which at that time was James's home, there learned 

That nobody had seen him all that day ; 

The morning came, and still he was unheard of ; 

The neighbors were alarmed, and to the brook 

Some hastened ; some ran to the lake ; ere noon 

They found him at the foot of that same rock 3S0 

Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 

I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 

Leonard. And that then is his grave ! Before his death 
You say that he saw many happy years ? 

Priest, Ay, that he did — 

Leonard. And all went well with him ? — 

Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 

Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind was 
easy ? — 

Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that time 
Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless 

His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, 39o 
He talked about him with a cheerful love. 

Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end ! 

Priest. Nay, God forbid ! You recollect I mentioned 
A habit which disquietude and grief 
Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
On the soft heath, and waiting for his comrades, 
He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep 
He to the margin of the precipice 



76 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong ; 400 

And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth 

Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we think, 

His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock 

It had been caught midway ; and there for years 

It hung ; — and mouldered there. 

The Priest here ended. 
The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
A gushing from his heart, that took away 
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ; 
And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, 
As the Priest hfted up the latch, turned round, 410 

And looking at the grave, he said, " My Brother ! " 
The Vicar did not hear the words ; and now 
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating 
That Leonard would partake his homely fare : 
The other thanked him with an earnest voice ; 
But added, that, the evening being calm, 
He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 
That overhung the road : he there stopped short, 
And sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 420 

All that the Priest had said : his early years 
Were with him, — his long absence, cherished hopes, 
And thoughts which had been his an hour before, 
All pressed on him with such a weight that now 
This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 
A place in which he could not bear to live ; 
So he relinquished all his purposes. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 77 

He travelled back to Egremont ; and thence, 

That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 

Reminding him of what had passed between them ; 43^ 

And adding, with a hope to be forgiven. 

That it was from the weakness of his heart 

He had not dared to tell him who he was. 

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 

A Seaman, a gray-headed Mariner. 



IT WAS AN APRIL MORNING: FRESH AND 
CLEAR." 

1800. — 1800. 

It was an April morning : fresh and clear, 

The Rivulet, dehghting in its strength, 

Ran with a young man's speed ; and yet the voice 

Of waters which the winter had suppHed 

Was softened down into a vernal tone. 

The spirit of enjoyment and desire. 

And hopes and wishes, from all living things 

Went circling, Hke a multitude of sounds. 

The budding groves seemed eager to urge on 

The steps of June ; as if their various hues 10 

Were only hindrances that stood between 

Them and their object ; but, meanwhile, prevailed 

Such an entire contentment in the air 

That every naked ash, and tardy tree 

Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance 

With which it looked on this delightful day 



78 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Were native to the summer. Up the brook 

I roamed in the confusion of my heart, 

Ahve to all things and forgetting all. 

At length I to a sudden turning came 20 

In this continuous glen, where down a rock 

The stream, so ardent in its course before, 

Sent forth such sallies of glad sound that all 

Which I till then had heard appeared the voice 

Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the lamb, 

The shepherd's dog, the linnet ^nd the thrush 

Vied with this waterfall, and made a song 

Which, while I listened, seemed Hke the wild growth 

Or like some natural produce of the air. 

That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here ; 3° 

But 't was the foliage of the rocks, — the birch, 

The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, 

With hanging islands of resplendent furze ; 

And on a summit distant a short space. 

By any who should look beyond the dell, 

A single mountain-cottage might be seen. 

I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 

" Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this wild nook, 

My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." 

— Soon did the spot become my other home, 4° 

My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 

And of the shepherds who have seen me there, 

To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 

Have told this fancy, two or three perhaps. 

Years after we are gone and in our graves. 

When they have cause to speak of this wild place, 

May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 79 

TO JOANNA. 

1800. — 1800. 

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 

The time of early youth ; and there you learned, 

From years of quiet industry, to love 

The living Beings by your own fireside, 

With such a strong devotion that your heart 

Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 

Who look upon the hills with tenderness. 

And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. 

Yet we who are transgressors in this kind. 

Dwelling retired in our simplicity 10 

Among the woods and fields, we love you well, 

Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 

So distant from us now for two long years. 

That you will gladly listen to discourse, 

However trivial, if you thence be taught 

That they with whom you once were happy, talk 

Familiarly of you and of old times. 

« 
While I was seated, now some ten days past, 
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
Their ancient neighbor, the old steeple-tower, 20 

The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
Came forth to greet me ; and when he had asked, ^ 
" How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid ! 
And when will she return to us? " he paused ; 
And after short exchange of village news. 



So SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

He with grave looks demanded for what cause, 

Reviving obsolete idolatry, 

I, like a Runic Priest, in characters 

Of formidable size had chiselled out 

Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 30 

Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. 

— Now, by those dear immunities of heart 

Engendered between malice and true love, 

I was not loath to be so catechised, 

And this was my reply : — "As it befell, 

One summer morning we had walked abroad 

At break of day, Joanna and myself. 

— 'T was that delightful season when the broom, 
Full-flowered, and visible in every steep. 

Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 40 

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks ; 

And when we came in front of that tall rock 

That eastward looks, I there stopped short, and stood 

Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye 

From base to summit : such delight I found 

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower. 

That intermixture of delicious hues. 

Along so vast a surface, all at once. 

In one impression, by connecting force 

Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 50 

— When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, 
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 

That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, 
Took up the Lady's voice and laughed again ; 
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 8i 

Was ready with her cavern ; Hammar-scar 

And the tall Steep of Silver-how sent forth 

A noise of laughter ; southern Loughrigg heard, 

And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone ; 60 

Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 

Carried the Lady's voice ; old Skiddaw blew 

His speaking trumpet ; back out of the clouds 

Of Glaramara southward come the voice ; 

And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 

— Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, 
Who in the hey-day of astonishment 
Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 

A work accomplished by the brotherhood 

Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 70 

With dreams and visionary impulses 

To me alone imparted, sure I am 

That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 

And while we both were listening, to my side 

The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 

To shelter from some object of her fear. 

— And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons 
Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 

Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 

And silent morning, I sat down, and there, ^o 

In memory of affections old and true, 

I chiselled out in those rude characters 

Joanna's name deep in the living stone ; 

And I, and all who dwell by my fireside. 

Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock." 



82 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

*' THERE IS AN EMINENCE." 

1800. — 1800. 

There is an Eminence, — of these our hills 
The last that parleys with the setting sun ; 
We can behold it from our orchard- seat ; 
And, when at evening we pursue our walk 
Along the public way, this Peak, so high 
Above us, and so distant in its height, 
Is visible ; and often seems to send 
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
The meteors make of it a favorite haunt : 
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
In the mid-heavens, is never half so fair 
As when he shines above it. 'T is in truth 
The loneliest place we have among the clouds. 
And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved 
With such communion that no place on earth 
Can ever be a solitude to me. 
Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. 



MICHAEL. 

A PASTORAL POEM. 
1 800. — 1 800. 

If from cne pubhc way you turn your step 
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
You will suppose that with an upright path 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. ^Z 

Your feet must struggle, in such bold ascent 

The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 

But, courage ! for around that boisterous brook 

The mountains have all opened out themselves, 

And made a hidden valley of their own. 

No habitation can be seen ; but they 

Who journey thither find themselves alone lo 

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 

That overhead are sailing in the sky. 

It is in truth an utter solitude ; 

Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 

But for one object which you might pass by, 

Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 

Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones, 

And to that simple object appertains 

A story, — unenriched with strange events, 

Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 

Or for the summer shade. It was the first 

Of those domestic tales that spake to me 

Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 

Whom I already loved : — not verily 

For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 

Where was their occupation and abode. 

And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 

Careless of books, yet having felt the power 

Of Nature, by the gentle agency 

Of natural objects, led me on to feel 3° 

For passions that were not my own, and think 

(At random and imperfectly indeed) 

On man, the heart of man, and human life. 

Therefore, although it be a history 



84 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 40 

There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ; 
An old man stout of heart and strong of limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
■ Of an unusual strength ; his mind was keen, 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs ; 
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, 
Of blasts of every tone ; and oftentimes, 
When others heeded not, he heard the South 50 

Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
" The winds are now devising work for me ! " 
And, truly, at all times the storm, that drives 
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 
That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 60 

So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks. 
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 85 

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 

The common air ; hills, which with vigorous step 

He had so often climbed ; which had impressed 

So many incidents upon his mind 

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 

Which, like a book, preserved the memory ' 7c 

Of the dumb animals whom he had saved. 

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 

The certainty of honorable gain ; 

Those fields, those hills — what could they less ? — had laid 

Strong hold on his affections, were to him 

A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 

The pleasure which there is in life itself. 

His days had not been passed in singleness. 
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old. 
Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80 

She was a woman of a stirring life. 
Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
Of antique form ; this large, for spinning wool ; 
That small, for flax ; and if one wheel had rest. 
It was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who had been born to them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 9° 

With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, 
The one of an inestimable worth, 
Made all their household. I may truly say 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 



86 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

For endless industry. When day was gone, 

And from their occupations out of doors 

The Son and Father were come home, even then 

Their labor did not cease ; unless when all 

Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, 

Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, loo 

Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes. 

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal 

Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 

And his old Father both betook themselves 

To such convenient work as might employ 

Their hands by the fireside ; perhaps to card 

Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 

Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 

Or other implement of house or field. 

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, no 
That in our ancient uncouth country style. 
With huge and black projection overbrowed 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp ; 
An aged utensil, which had performed 
Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn, and late, 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. 
Which, going by from year to year, had found, 
And left the couple neither gay perhaps 120 

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 
Living a life of eager industry. 

And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, 
There by the light of this old lamp they sate, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 87 

Father and Son, while far into the night 

The Housewife pHed her own peculiar work, 

Making the cottage through the silent hours 

Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 

This light was famous in its neighborhood, 

And was a pubhc symbol of the life ^3° 

That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 

Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, 

High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 

And westward to the village near the lake ; 

And from this constant light, so regular 

And so far seen, the House itself, by all 

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. 

Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. 

Thus living on through such a length of years, 14^ 
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all — 
Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man. 
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
By -tendency of nature needs must fail. ^5^ 

Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
His heart and his heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
Had done him female service, not alone 



88 



SELECT/OATS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

For pastime and delight, as is the use 
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
His cradle as with a woman's gentle hand. 

And in a later time, ere yet the Boy- 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, i6o 
Albeit of a stern, unbending mind. 
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool 
Sat with a fettered sheep before him stretched 
Under the large old oak, that near his door 
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 170 
With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up 
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old. 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 180 

W^ith his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 
With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. ^9 

And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipped, 

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 

And, to his office prematurely called. 

There stood the urchin, as you will divine. 

Something between a hindrance and a help ; 

And for this cause not always, I believe, 190 

Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 

Though naught was left undone which staff, or voice. 

Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
Against the mountain blasts, and to the heights, 
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
He with his Father daily went, and they 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
Were dearer now ; that from the Boy there came 200 
Feelings and emanations, things which were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
And that the old Man's heart seemed born again ? 

Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up ; 
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 
He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 210 



QO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

In surety for his brother's son, a man 

Of an industrious life, and ample means ; 

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 

Had pressed upon him ; and old Michael now 

Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 

A grievous penalty, but little less 

Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim. 

At the first hearing, for a moment took 

More hope out of his life than he supposed 

That any old man ever could have lost. 220 

As soon as he had armed himself with strength 

To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 

The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 

A portion of his patrimonial fields. 

Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 

And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, 

Two* evenings after he had heard the news, 

^' I have been toiling more than seventy years, 

And in the open sunshine of God's love ^ 

Haf e we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 230 

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 

That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 

Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself 

Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 

And I have lived to be a fool at last 

To my own family. An evil man 

That was, and made an evil choice, if he 

Were false to us ; and if he were not false, 

There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him — but 240 

'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 91 

When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 
Another kinsman ; he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
Thriving in trade ; and Luke to him shall go, 250 

And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here he stay, 
What can be done ? Where every one is poor, 
What can be gained? " 

At this the old Man paused, 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There 's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, 
He was a parish-boy, — at the church-door 
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, 260 
And half-pennies, wherewith the neighbors bought 
A basket, which they filled with pedler's wares ; 
And, with his basket on his arm, the lad 
Went up to London, found a master there, 
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich. 
And left estates and moneys to the poor. 
And at his birthplace built a chapel, floored 
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 270 

These thoughts, and many others of Hke sort, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, 
And thus resumed : " Well, Isabel ! this scheme. 
These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 

— We have enough, — I wish indeed that I 
Were younger, — but this hope is a good hope. 
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 

Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 280 

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 

— If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." 

Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
Things needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work : for, when she lay _ 
By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 290 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep ; 
And when they rose at morning she could see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not go : 
We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
None to remember, — do not go away. 
For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 300 

Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 93 

Did she bring forth ; and all together sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman came, 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
To which requests were added, that forthwith 310 

He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
The letter was read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbors round. 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
" He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
Which, if at such short notice he should go, 
Would surely be forgotten. But at length 320 

She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
For this same purpose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge 
I^ay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ; 
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 330 



94 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And thus the old Man spake to him : " My Son, 

To-morrow thou wilt leave me ; with full heart 

I look upon thee, for thou art the same 

That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 

And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 

I will relate to thee some litde part 

Of our two histories ; 't will do thee good 

When thou art from me, even if I should touch 

On things thou canst not know of. — After thou 

First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls 34° 

The new-born infants — thou didst sleep away 

Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 

Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on. 

And still I loved thee with increasing love. 

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 

Than when I heard thee by our own fireside 

First uttering, without words, a natural tune : 

While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 

Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, 

And in the open fields my life was passed 35° 

And on the mountains ; else I think that thou 

Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 

But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills. 

As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 

Have played together, nor with me didst thou 

Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 

Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 

He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand 

And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 

That these are things of which I need not speak. 360 

— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 95 

A kind and a good Father j and herein 

I but repay a gift which I myself 

Received at other's hands ; for though now old 

Beyond the common life of man, I still 

Remember them who loved me in my youth. 

Both of them sleep together : here they lived, 

As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 

At length their time was come, they were not loath 

To give their bodies to the family mould. 370 

I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived ; 

But 't is a long time to look back, my Son, 

And see so little gain from threescore years. 

These fields were burdened when they came to me ; 

Till I was forty years of age, not more 

Than half of my inheritance was mine. 

I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, 

And till these three weeks past the land was free. 

— It looks as if it never could endure 

Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 380 

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 

That thou shouldst go." 

At this the old man paused ; 
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, 
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
" This was a work for us ; and now, my Son, 
It is a work for me. But lay one stone, — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; we both may live 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale ; do thou thy part ; 39° 

I will do mine. I will begin again 
With many tasks that were resigned to thee : 



96 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Up to the heights, and in among the storms. 

Will I without thee go again, and do 

All works which I was wont to do alone, 

Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee, Boy ! 

Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 

With many hopes ; it should be so — yes, yes, — 

I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 

To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me A"-^ 

Only by links of love : when thou art gone 

What will be left to us ! — But I forget 

My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 

As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 

When thou art gone away, should evil men 

Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 

And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts, 

And God will strengthen thee. Amid all fear 

And all temptations, Luke, I pray that thou 

May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 410 

Who, being innocent, did for that cause 

Bestir them in good deeds. Now fare thee well, — 

When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 

A work which is not here : a covenant 

'T will be between us ; but, whatever fate 

Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 

And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 

The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down, 
And, as his Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 420 

The old Man's grief broke from him ; to his heart 
He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept ; 
And to the house together they returned. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 97 

— Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, 

Ere the night fell : with morrow's dawn the Boy 

Began his journey, and when he had reached 

The public way, he put on a bold face ; 

And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors. 

Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 

That followed him till he was out of sight. 43° 

A good report did from their Kinsman come, 
Of Luke and his well-doing ; and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 
"The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
So many months passed on ; and once again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 440 

He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began 
To slacken in his duty ; and at length 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 
'T will make a thing endurable, which else 
Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 45^ 

I have conversed with more than one who well 
Remember the old Man, and what he was 
7 



98 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Years after he had heard this heavy news. 

His bodily frame had been from youtli to age 

Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 

He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, 

And listened to the wind, and, as before, 

Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, 

And for the land, his small inheritance. 

And to that hollow dell from time to time 460 

Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 

His flock had need. 'T is not forgotten yet, 

The pity which was then in every heart 

For the-old Man ; and 'tis believed by all 

That many and many a day he thither went. 

And never lifted up a single stone. 

There by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time to time, 47° 
He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
The Cottage which was named the Evening Star 
Is gone, — the ploughshare has been through the ground 
On which it stood. Great changes have been wrought 
In all the neighborhood ; yet the oak is left 
That grew beside their door ; and the remains 4S0 

Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 99 

THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 

1800. — 1800. 

" Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," 

Exclaimed an angry Voice, 

" Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 

Between me and my choice ! " 

A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 

Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 

That all bespattered with his foam. 

And dancing high and dancing low, 

Was living, as a child might know, 

In an unhappy home. ^o 

" Dost thou presume my course to block ? 

Off, off ! or, puny Thing ! 

I '11 hurl thee headlong with the rock 

To which thy fibres cling." 

The Flood was tyrannous and strong ; 

The patient Briar suffered long. 

Nor did he utter groan or sigh. 

Hoping the danger would be past ; 

But seeing no relief, at last 

He ventured to reply. 20 

" Ah ! " said the Briar, " blame me not ; 
Why should we dwell in strife ? 
We who in this sequestered spot 
Once lived a happy life ! 



lOO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

You stirred me on my rocky bed, — 

What pleasure through my veins you spread ! 

The summer long, from day to day, 

My leaves you freshened and bedewed ; 

Nor was it common gi-atitude 

That did your cares repay. 3° 

" When spring came on with bud and bell, 

Among these rocks did I 

Before you hang my wreaths, to tell 

That gentle days were nigh ! 

And in the sultry summer hours 

I sheltered you with leaves and flowers ; 

And in my leaves — now shed and gone — 

The linnet lodged, and for us two 

Chanted his pretty songs, when you 

Had little voice or none. 40 

" But now proud thoughts are in your breast — 

What grief is mine you see, 

Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 

Together we might be ! 

Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 

Some ornaments to me are left — 

Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 

With which I, in my humble way, 

Would deck you many a winter day, 

A happy Eglantine ! " 5° 

What more he said I cannot tell. 
The Torrent down the rocky dell 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Came thundering loud and fast ; 
I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
The Briar quaked — and much I fear 
Those accents were his last. 



THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 

A PASTORAL. 
1800. — 1800. 

His simple truths did Andrew glean 

Beside the babbling rills ; 

A careful student he had been 

Among the woods and hills. 

One winter's night, when through the trees 

The wind was roaring, on his knees 

His youngest born did Andrew hold : 

And while the rest, a ruddy quire, 

Were seated round their blazing fire, 

This Tale the Shepherd told : — 

" I saw a crag, a lofty stone 

As ever tempest beat ! 

Out of its head an Oak had grown, 

A Broom out of its feet. 

The time was March, a cheerful noon — 

The thaw- wind, with the breath of June, 

Breathed gently from the warm south-west : 

When, in a voice sedate with age, 



[02 SELECTIOXS FKOM WORDS IVOR TH. 

This Oak, a giant and a sage, 

His neighbor thus addressed : — 20 

* Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, 

Along this mountain's edge. 

The Frost hath wrought both night and day. 

Wedge driving after wedge. 

Look up ! and think, above your head 

What trouble, surely, will be bred ; 

Last night I heard a crash — 't is true, 

The splinters took another road, — 

I see them yonder, — what a load 

For such a Thing as you ! 30 

You are preparing as before 

To deck your slender shape ; 

And yet, just three years back — no more — 

You had a strange escape : 

Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; 

It thundered down with fire and smoke. 

And hitherward pursued its way ; 

This ponderous block was caught by me, 

And o'er your head, as you may see, 

'T is hanging to this day ! 40 

If breeze or bird to this rough steep 
Your kind's first seed did bear. 
The breeze had better been asleep. 
The bird caught in a snare ; 
For you and your green twigs decoy 
The little witless shepherd-boy 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 103 

To come and slumber in your bower ; 

And, trust me, on some sultry noon 

Both you and he. Heaven knows how soon ! 

Will perish in one hour. 5° 

From me this friendly warning take.' 

The Broom began to doze, 

And thus to keep herself awake, 

Did gently interpose : 

* My thanks for your discourse are due ; 

That more than what you say is true, 

I know, and I have known it long ; 

Frail is the bond by which we hold 

Our being, whether young or old. 

Wise, foohsh, weak, or strong. 60 

Disasters, do the best we can, 

Will reach both great and small ; 

And he is oft the wisest man 

Who is not wise at all. 

For me, why should I wish to roam ? 

This spot is my paternal home, * 

It is my pleasant heritage ; 

My father many a happy year 

Spread here his careless blossoms, here 

Attained a good old age. 70 

Even such as his may be my lot. 
What cause have I to haunt 
My heart with terrors ? Am I not 
In truth a favored plant ! 



I04 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

On me such bounty Summer pours, 

That I am covered o'er with flowers ; 

And, when the Frost is in the sky, 

My branches are so fresh and gay 

That you might look at me and say, 

This Plant can never die. 80 

The butterfly, all green and gold. 

To me hath often flown. 

Here in my blossoms to behold 

Wings lovely as his own. 

When grass is chill with rain or dew, 

Beneath my shade the mother-ewe 

Lies with her infant lamb ; I see 

The love they to each other make. 

And the sweet joy which they partake ; 

It is a joy to me.' 90 

Her voice was bhthe, her heart was light ; 

The Broom might have pursue^ 

Her speech, until the stars of night 

Their journey had renewed ; 

But in the branches of the oak 

Two ravens now began to croak 

Their nuptial song, a gladsome air ; 

And to her own green bower the breeze 

That instant brought two stripling bees 

To rest, or murmur there. 100 

One night, my Children ! from the north 
There came a furious blast ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 05 

At break of day I ventured forth, 

And near the cliff I passed. 

The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 

And struck him with a mighty stroke, 

And whirled, and whirled him far away 

And, in one hospitable cleft, 

The little careless Broom was left 

To live for many a day," no 



THE SPARROW'S NEST. 

1801. — 1807. 

Behold, within the leafy shade. 
Those bright blue eggs together laid ! 
On me the chance-discovered sight 
Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
I started — seeming to espy 
The home and sheltered bed. 
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
My Father's house, in wet or dry 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together visited. 

She looked at it and seemed to fear it ; 
Dreading, though wishing, to be near it : 
Such heart was in her, being then 
A little Prattler among men. 
The Blessing of my later years 



io6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 

Was with me when a boy : 
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears : 
And humble cares, and dehcate fears ; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 

And love, and thought, and joy. 20 



ALICE FELL; 

OR, POVERTY. 
1802. — 1807. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, 

For threatening clouds the moon had drowned ; 

When, as we hurried on, my ear 

Was smitten with a startling sound. 

As if the wind blew many ways, 
I heard the sound — and more and more ; 
It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
And still I heard it as before. 

At length I to the boy called out ; 
He stopped his horses at the word, 
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout. 
Nor aught else like it, could be heard. 

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
The horses scampered through the rain ; 
But hearing soon upon the blast 
The cry, I bade him halt again. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 107 

Forthwith aHghting on the ground, 

"Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" 

And there a little Girl I found, 

Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 20 

" My cloak ! " No other word she spake, 
But loud and bitterly she wept. 
As if her innocent heart would break ; 
And down from off her seat she leapt. 

" What ails you, child? " — She sobbed, " Look here ! " 

I saw it in the wheel entangled, 

A weather-beaten rag as e'er 

From any garden scarecrow dangled. 

There, twisted between nave and spoke, 

It hung, nor could at once be freed ; 3° 

But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 

A miserable rag indeed ! 

" And whither are you going, child, 
To-night, along these lonesome ways ? " 
" To Durham," answered she, half wild. 
" Then come with me into the chaise." 

Insensible to all relief 

Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 

Sob after sob, as if her grief 

Could never, never have an end. 40 

" My child, in Durham do you dwell ? " 
She checked herself in her distress, 



I08 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And said, '' My name is Alice Fell ; 
I 'm fatherless and motherless. 

And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 
Again, as if the thought would choke 
Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 
And all was for her tattered cloak ! 

The' chaise drove on ; our journey's end 

Was nigh ; and sitting by my side, 50 

As if she had lost her only friend 

She wept, nor would be pacified. 

Up to the tavern-door we post ; 
Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
And I gave money to the host. 
To buy a new cloak for the old. 

''And let it be of duffil gray, 

As warm a cloak as man can sell ! " 

Proud creature was she the next day, 

The little orphan, Alice Fell ! 60 



BEGGARS. 

1802. — 1807. 

She had a tall man's height pr more ; 

Her face from summer's noontide heat 

No bonnet shaded, but she wore 

A mantle, to her very feet 

Descending with a graceful flow. 

And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 109 

Her skin was of Egyptian brown : 

Haughty, as if her eye had seen 

Its own light to a distance thrown, 

She towered, fit person for a Queen 10 

To lead those ancient Amazonian files ; 

Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. 

Advancing, forth she stretched her hand 

And begged an alms with doleful plea 

That ceased not ; on our English land 

Such woes, I knew, could never be ; 

And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature 

Was beautiful to see — a weed of glorious feature. 

I left her, and pursued my way ; 

And soon before me did espy 20 

A pair of little Boys at play, 

Chasing a crimson butterfly ; 

The taller followed with his hat in hand, 

Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. 

The other wore a rimless crown 

With leaves of laurel stuck about ; 

And while both followed up and down. 

Each whooping with a merry shout, 

In their fraternal features I could trace 

Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. 30 

Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit 

For finest tasks of earth or air : 

Wings let them have, and they might flit 



no SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Precursors to Aurora's car, 

Scattering fresh flowers ; though happier far, I ween, 

To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. 

They dart across my path, — but lo, 

Each ready with a plaintive whine ! 

Said I, " Not half an hour ago 

Your Mother has had alms of mine." 40 

*' That cannot be," one answered, — " she is dead ; " 

I looked reproof; they saw, but neither hung his head. 

" She has been dead. Sir, many a day." 

" Hush, boys ! you 're telling me a lie ; 

It was your Mother, as I say ! " 

And in the twinkling of an eye, 

" Come ! come ! " cried one, and without more ado, 

Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! 



WRITTEN IN MARCH, 

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S 
WATER. 

1802. — 1807. 

The cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowing. 
The small birds twitter. 
The lake doth glitter. 
The green field sleeps in the sun ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. ill 

The oldest and youngest 
Are at work with the strongest ; 
The cattle are grazing, 
Their heads never raising ; 
There are forty feeding Hke one ! lo 

Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill ; 
The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon : 

There 's joy in the mountains ; 

There 's life in the fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevaiHng ; 
The rain is over and gone ! 20 



"MY HEART LEAPS UP." 

1802. — 1807. 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky ; 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a man ; 
So be it when I shall grow old. 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



12 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY. 

1802. — 1807. 

Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, 
The pious bird with the scarlet breast, 

Our little English Robin ; 
The bird that comes about our doors 
When Autumn winds are sobbing? 
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors ? 

Their Thomas in Finland, 

And Russia far inland ? 
The bird that by some name or other 
All men who know thee call their brother, i 

The darling of children and men? 
Could Father Adam open his eyes 
And see this sight beneath the skies, 
He 'd wish to close them again. 
— If the Butterfly knew but his friend, 
Hither his flight he would bend j 
And find his way to me, 
Under the branches of the tree : 
In and out he darts about ; 

Can this be the bird, to man so good, 2 

That after their bewildering, 
Covered with leaves the little children, 

So painfully in the wood ? 

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue 

A beautiful creature, 
That is gentle by nature ? 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 113 

Beneath the summer sky 

From flower to flower let him fly ; 

'T is all that he wishes to do. 

The cheerer Thou of our indoor sadness, 3° 

He is the friend of our summer gladness ; 

What hinders, then, that ye should be 

Playmates in the sunny weather, 

And fly about in the air together ? 

His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 

A crimson as bright as thine own ; 

Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, 

O pious Bird ! whom man loves best, 

Love him, or leave him alone ! 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 

1802. — 1807. 

I 'vE watched you now a full half-hour, 

Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; 

And, little Butterfly, indeed 

I know not if you sleep or feed. 

How motionless ! — not frozen seas 

More motionless ! and then 

What joy awaits you, when the breeze 

Hath found you out among the trees, 

And calls you forth again ! 

This plot of orchard-ground is ours ; 
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers. 
Here rest your wings when they are weary ; 
8 



114 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 

Come often to us, fear no wrong ; 

Sit near us on the bough ! 

We '11 talk of sunshine and of song, 

And summer days when we were young, — 

Sweet childish days, that were as long 

As twenty days are now. 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 

1802. — 1807. 

Stay near me : do not take thy flight ! 

A little longer stay in sight ! 

Much converse do I find in thee, 

Historian of my infancy ! 

Float near me : do not yet depart ! 

Dead times revive in thee : 

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art ! 

A solemn image to my heart, 

My father's family ! 

Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days. 
The time, when, in our childish plays. 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together chased the butterfly ! 
A very hunter did I rush 
Upon the prey : with leaps and springs 
I followed on from brake to bush ; 
But she, God love her ! feared to brush 
The dust from off its wings. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 115 

TO THE SMALL CELANf)INE. 

1802. — 1807. 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises ; 
Long as there 's a sun that sets, 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are violets, 
They will have a place in story : 
There 's a flower that shall be mine, 
'T is the little Celandine. 

Eyes of some men travel far 

For the finding of a star ; 10 

Up and down the heavens they go, 

Men that keep a mighty rout ! 

I 'm as great as they, I trow. 

Since the day I found thee out. 

Little Flower ! — I '11 make a stir, 

Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an Elf 

Bold, and lavish of thyself; 

Since we needs must first have met, 

I have seen thee, high and low, 20 

Thirty years or more, and yet 

'T was a face I did not know ; 

Thou hast now, go where I may, 

Fifty greetings in a day. 



Ii6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush, 

In the time before the thrush 

Has a thought about her nest, 

Thou wilt come with half a call, 

Spreading out thy glossy breast 

Like a careless Prodigal ; 30 

Telling tales about the sun, 

When we 've little warmth or none 

Poets — vain men in their mood ! — 

Travel with the multitude : 

Never heed them \ I aver 

That they all are wanton wooers ; 

But the thrifty cottager, 

Who stirs Httle out of doors, 

Joys to spy thee near her home : 

Spring is coming, Thou art come 4° 

Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
Careless of thy neighborhood, 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood, 
In the lane ; — there 's not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be. 
But 't is good enough for thee. 

Ill befall the yellow Flowers, 

Children of the flaring hours ! 5° 

Buttercups, that will be seen, 

Whether we will see .or no ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. n? 

Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
They have done as worldlings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine ! 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 

Ill-requited upon earth ; 

Herald of a mighty band. 

Of a joyous train ensuing, 60 

Serving at my heart's command. 

Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 

I will sing, as doth behove. 

Hymns in praise of what I love ! 



TO THE SAME FLOWER. 

1802.— 1807. 

Pleasures newly found are sweet 

When they lie about our feet : 

February last, my heart 

First at sight of thee was glad ; 

All unheard of as thou art, 

Thou must needs, I think, have had, 

Celandine ! and long ago. 

Praise of which I nothing know. 

I have not a doubt but he, 

Whosoe'er the man might be, 10 

Who the first with pointed rays 

(Workman worthy to be sainted) 



Ii8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Set the sign-board in a blaze, 
When the rising sun he painted, 
Took the fancy from a glance 
At thy glittering countenance. 

Soon as gentle breezes bring 

News of winter's vanishing ; 

And the children build their bowers, 

Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 20 

All about with full-blown flowers, 

Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 

With the proudest thou art there, 

Mantling in the tiny square. 

Often have I sighed to measure 

By myself a lonely pleasure, 

Sighed to think, I read a book. 

Only read, perhaps, by me ; 

Yet I long could overlook 

Thy bright coronet and Thee, 30 

And thy arch and wily ways. 

And thy store of other praise. 

Blithe of heart, from week to week 

Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ; 

While the patient primrose sits 

Like a beggar in the cold. 

Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 

Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold ; 

Liveliest of the vernal train 

When we are all out again. 4° 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 19 

Drawn by what peculiar spell. 
By what charm of sight or smell, 
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
Laboring for her waxen cells, 
Fondly settle upon Thee, 
Prized above all buds and bells 
Opening daily at thy side, 
By the season multiplied? 

Thou art not beyond the moon, 

But a thing " beneath our shoon : " 5° 

Let the bold Discoverer thrid 

In his bark the polar sea ; 

Rear who will a pyramid ; 

Praise it is enough for me. 

If there be but three or four 

Who will love my little Flower. 



THE LEECH-GATHERER; 

OR, RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 

1802. — 1807. 

There was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 
But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; 
The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods ; 
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters ; 
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. 



I20 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 

The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 

The grass is bright with rain- drops ; on the moors lo 

The hare is running races in her mirth ; 

And with her feet she from the plashy earth 

Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 

Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 

I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 

I saw the hare that raced about with joy ; 

I heard the woods and distant waters roar, 

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 

The pleasant season did my heart employ : 

My old remembrances went from me wholly, 20 

And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go. 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low ; 
To me that morning did it happen so : 
And fears and fancies thick upon me came ; 
Dim sadness and bHnd thoughts, I knew not, nor could 
name. 

I heard the skylark warbling in the sky ; 

And I bethought me of the playful hare ; 3° 

Even such a happy Child of earth am I ; 

Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 

Far from the world I walk, and from all care ; 

But there may come another day to me, — 

SoUtude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 121 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 

As if life's business were a summer mood ; 

As if all needful things would come unsought 

To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 

But how can He expect that others should 4° 

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? 

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, 

The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; 

Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 

Following his plough, along the mountain-side ; 

By our own spirits are we deified : 

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness : 

But thereof come in t*he end despondency and madness. 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 5° 

A leading from above, a something given. 

Yet it befell that in this lonely place. 

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 

Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 

I saw a Man before me unawares : 

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs. 

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 

Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 

Wonder to all who do the same espy. 

By what means it could thither come, and whence ; 60 

So that it seems a thing endued with sense, — 

Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 

Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; 



122 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 

Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age : 

His body was bent double, feet and head 

Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; 

As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 

Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 

A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 70 

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood ; 
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace. 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood. 
That heareth not the loud winds when they call. 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 

Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 

Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 80 

As if he had been reading in a book ; 

And now a stranger's privilege I took, 

And drawing to his side, to him did say, 

" This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." 

A gentle answer did the old Man make, 

In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew ; 

And him with further words I thus bespake, 

" What occupation do you there pursue ? 

This is a lonesome place for one like you." 

Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 90 

Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 123 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 

But each in solemn order followed each, 

With something of a lofty utterance drest, — 

Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 

Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 

Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use. 

Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. 

He told, that to these waters he had come 

To gather leeches, being old and poor, — 100 

Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 

And he had many hardships to endure ; 

From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor ; 

Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance ; 

And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 

The old Man still stood talking by my side ; 

But now his voice to me was like a stream 

Scarce heard, nor word from word could I divide ; 

And the whole body of the Man did seem 

Like one whom I had met with in a dream, no 

Or like a man from some far region sent, 

To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. 

My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills ; 

And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 

Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills ; 

And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 

— Perplexed, and longing to be comforted. 

My question eagerly did I renew, 

" How is it that you live, and what is it you do ? " 



124 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 120 

And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide 

He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet 

The waters of the pools where they abide. 

" Once I could meet with them on every side ; 

But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 

Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 

While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 

The old Man's shape, and speech, — all troubled me : 

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 

About the weary moors continually, 130 

Wandering about alone and silently. 

While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 

He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 

And soon with this he other matter blended, 

Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind. 

But stately in the main ; and when he ended, 

I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 

In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 

" God," said I, " be my help and stay secure; 

I '11 think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! " 140 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 125 

A FAREWELL. 

1802.— 1815. 

Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, 

Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 

Of that magnificent temple which doth bound 

One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare ; 

Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 

The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, 

Farewell ! — we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care, 

Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround. 

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore, 
And there will safely ride when we are gone ; 10 

The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door 
Will prosper, though untended and alone : 
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none ; 
These narrow bounds contain our private store 
Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon ; 
Here are they in our sight, — we have no more. 

Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell ! 
For two months now in vain we shall be sought ; 
We leave you here in solitude to dwell 
With these our latest gifts of tender thought : 20 

Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, 
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell ! 
Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, 
And placed together near our rocky Well. 



126 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

We go for One to whom ye will be dear ; 
And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed, 
Our own contrivance. Building without peer ! 
— A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, 
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, 
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, 30 

. Will come to you ; to you herself will wed, 
And love the blessed life that we lead here. 

Dear Spot ! which we have watched with tender heed, 
Bringing the chosen plants and blossoms blown 
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, 
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own. 
Making all kindness registered and known ; — 
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed. 
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone. 
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 40 

And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, 
That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show 
To them who look not daily on thy face ; 
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know. 
And say'st, when we forsake thee, " Let them go ! " 
Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow. 
And travel with the year at a soft pace. 

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by. 

And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best ; 5° 

Joy will be flown in its mortality ; 

Something must stay to tell us of the rest. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 127 

Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast 
Glittered at evening like a starry sky ; 
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, 
Of which I sang one song that will not die. 

O happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep 

Hath been so friendly to industrious hours ; 

And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 

Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers 60 

And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers, 

Two burning months let summer overleap. 

And coming back with Her who will be ours, 

Into thy bosom we again shall creep. 



STANZAS. 

WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S CASTLE OF 
INDOLENCE. 

1802. — 1815. 

Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 

Whom without blame I may not overlook ; 

P'or never sun on living creature shone 

Who more devout enjoyment with us took ; 

Here on his hours he hung as on a book, 

On his own time here would he float away, 

As doth a fly upon a summer brook ; 

But go to-morrow, or belike to-day. 

Seek for him, — he is fled ; and whither none can say 



128 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, lo 

And find elsewhere his busmess or delight ; 

Out of our Valley's limits did he roam : 

Full many a time, upon a stormy night, 

His voice came to us from the neighboring height.: 

Oft could we see him driving full in view 

At mid-day when the sun was shining bright ; 

What ill was on him, what he had to do, 

A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. 

Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man 

When he came back to us, a withered flower, — 20 

Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 

Down would he sit ; and without strength or power 

Look at the common grass from hour to hour : 

And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, 

Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, 

Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay ; 

And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. 

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was 

Whenever from our Valley he withdrew ; 

For happier soul no living creature has 30 

Than he had, being here the long day through. 

Some thought he was a lover, and did woo ; 

Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong ; 

But verse was what he had been wedded to ; 

And his own mind did like a tempest strong 

Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along. 

With him there often walked in friendly guise, 
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 129 

A noticeable Man, with large gray eyes, 

And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 40 

As if a blooming face it ought to be ; 

Heavy his low-hung Hp did oft appear, 

Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy ; 

Profound his forehead was, though not severe ; 

Yet some did think that he had little business here : 

Sweet heaven forefend ! his was a lawful right ; 

Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy ; 

His Umbs would toss about him with delight, 

Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. 

Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 50 

To banish listlessness and irksome care ; 

He would have taught you how you might employ 

Yourself; and many did to him repair, — 

And certes not in vain ; he had inventions rare. 

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 

Long blades of grass plucked round him as he lay, 

Made, to his ear attentively applied, 

A pipe on which the wind would defdy play ; 

Glasses he had, that little things display, — 

The beetle panoplied in gems of gold, ^ 

A mailed angel on a battle-day ; 

The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, 

And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. 

He would entice that other Man to hear 
His music, and to view his imagery : 
And sooth, these two were each to the other dear ; 
9 



130 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 

No livelier love in such a place could be : 

There did they dwell, from earthly labor free, 

As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 

If but a bird, to keep them company, 70 

Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, 

As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden -queen. 



"THE SUN HAS LONG BEEN SET." 

1802. — 1807. 

The sun has long been set, 

The stars are out by twos and threes, 
The little birds are piping yet 

Among the bushes and trees ; 
There 's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes. 
And a far-off wind that rushes. 
And a sound of water that gushes, 
And the cuckoo's sovereign cry 
Fills all the hollow of the sky. 

Who would " go parading " 
In London, " and masquerading," 
On such a night of June 
With that beautiful soft half-moon, 
On all these innocent blisses ? 
On such a night as this is ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 131 

TO H. C. 

SIX YEARS OLD. 

1802. — 1807. 

O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are brought ; 

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 

And fittest to unutterable thought 

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ; 

Thou faery voyager ! that dost float 

In such clear water, that thy boat 

May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; 

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky. 

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ; 10 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild, 

1 think of thee with many fears 

For what may be thy lot in future years. 

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, 

Lord of thy house and hospitality ; 

And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 

But when she sate within the touch of thee. 

O too industrious folly ! 

O vain and causeless melancholy ! 20 

Nature will either end thee quite ; 

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 

Preserve for thee, by individual right, 

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. 

What hast thou to do with sorrow, 



132 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Or the injuries of to-morrow? 

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 

111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 

A gem that glitters while it lives, 30 

And no forewarning gives, 

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 

Slips in a moment out of life. 



TO THE DAISY. 

1802.— 1807. 

In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to hill in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent. 

Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make, — 
My thirst at every rill can slake, 
And gladly Nature's love partake 

Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 

Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 

That she may sun thee ; 
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; 
And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 

When rains are on thee. 



SELECTIONS EROM WORDSWORTH. 133 

In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; 
Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 

Yet nothing daunted, 20 

Nor grieved if thou be set at naught ; 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
We meet thee, hke a pleasant thought, 

When such are wanted. 

Be violets in their secret mews 

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; 

Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 

Her head impearhng. 
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim. 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 3° 

Thou art indeed by many a claim 

The poet's darling. 

If to a rock from rains he fly, 
- Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine He 

Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare ; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 

His melancholy. 40 

A hundred times, by rock or bovver, 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 
Some apprehension , 



134 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
Some memory that had taken flight ; 
Some chime of fancy wrong or right, 
Or stray invention. 

If stately passions in me burn, 

And one chance look to Thee should turn, 5° 

I drink out of an humbler urn 

A lowlier pleasure, — 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life our nature breeds ; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 

With kindred gladness ; 60 

And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 

Of careful sadness. 

And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 

To thee am owing ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense, 
A happy, genial influence, 7° 

Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 

Nor whither going. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 135 

Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course, — when day 's begun 
As ready to salute the sun 

As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ; thou not in vain 

Art Nature's favorite. 80 



ON THE SAME FLOWER. 

1802. — 1807. 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 

For thou art worthy. 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

Which love makes for thee 1 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes, 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising ; 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humor of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure of lowly port ; 

Or sprightly maiden of Love's court, 



136 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 20 

A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest, — 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next, — and instantly 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish, — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 30 

That spreads itself some faery bold 

In fight to cover. 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; 
May peace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 40 

Bright Flower ! for by that name at last. 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 

Sweet silent creature ! 
That breath 'st with me in sun and air. 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 137 

TO THE DAISY. 

1802. — 1807. 

Bright Flower ! whose home is everywhere, 

Bold in maternal Nature's care, 

And all the long year through the heir 

Of joy or sorrow, 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Given to no other flower I see 

The forest thorough ! 

Is it that Man is soon deprest, — 

-k thoughtless thing ! who, once unblest, 10 

Does little on his memory rest, 

Or on his reason. 
And Thou would'st teach him how to find 
A shelter under every wind, 
A hope for times that are unkind 

And every season? 

Thou wander'st the wide world about, 
Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, 
With friends to greet thee, or without. 

Yet pleased and willing ; 20 

Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 
And all things suffering from all, 
Thy function apostolical 

In peace fulfilling. 



138 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

THE GREEN LINNET. 

1803. — 1807. 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
With brightest sunshine round me spread 

Of spring's unclouded weather, 
In this sequestered nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat, 
And birds and flowers once more to greet, 

My last year's friends together ! 

One have I marked, the happiest guest 

In all this covert of the blest ; 10 

Hail to Thee, far above the rest 

In joy of voice and pinion ! 
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, 
Presiding Spirit here to-day. 
Dost lead the revels of the May ; 

And this is thy dominion. 

While birds and butterflies and flowers 
Make all one band of paramours, 
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 

Art sole in thy employment ; 20 

A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
Scattering thy gladness without care, 
Too blest with any one to pair ; 

Thyself thy own enjoyment. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 139 

Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees, 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
Behold him perched in ecstasies, 

Yet seeming still to hover ; 
There ! where the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and body flings 30 

Shadows and sunny glimmerings. 

That cover him all over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A brother of the dancing leaves ; 
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 

Pours forth his song in gushes ; 
As if by that exulting strain 
He mocked and treated with disdain 
The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 

While fluttering in the bushes. 40 



YEW-TREES. 

1803. — 1815. 

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
Which to this day stands single, in the midst 
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore : 
Not loath to furnish weapons for the hands 
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
To Scotland's heaths ; or those that crossed the sea 
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, 
Perhaps at earher Crecy, or Poictiers. 



I40 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Of vast circumference and gloom profound 

This solitary Tree ! a living thing lo 

Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 

Of form and aspect too magnificent 

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 

Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, 

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 

Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a growth 

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 

Nor uniformed with Phantasy, and looks 

That threaten the profane, — a pillared shade, 20 

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue. 

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 

Perennially, beneath whose sable roof 

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked 

With unrejoicing berries, ghostly Shapes 

May meet at noontide, — Fear and trembling Hope, 

Silence and Foresight ; Death the Skeleton 

And Time the Shadow, — there to celebrate, 

As in a natural temple scattered o'er 

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 30 

United worship ; or in mute repose 

To lie, and hsten to the mountain flood 

Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 141 

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. 
1803. — 1845. 

I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, 

At thought of what I now behold ; 

As vapors breathed from dungeons cold 

Strike pleasure dead, 
So sadness comes from out the mould 

Where Burns is laid. 

And have I then thy bones so near 
And thou forbidden to appear? 
As if it were thyself that 's here 

I shrink with pain ; 10 

And both my wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away 
Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to stay ; 
With chastened feelings would I pay 

The tribute due 
To him, and aught that hides his clay 

From mortal view. 

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 

He sang, his genius "glinted " forth, 20 



142 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Rose like a star that touching earth, 

For so it seems, 
Doth glorify its humble birth 

With matchless beams. 

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, 

The struggling heart, where be they now? — 

Full soon the Aspirant of the plough. 

The prompt, the brave, 
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 

And silent grave. 3° 

I mourned with thousands, but as one 
More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
Whose light I hailed when first it shone. 

And showed my youth 
How Verse may build a princely throne 

On humble truth. 

Alas ! where'er the current tends. 
Regret pursues and with it blends, — 
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends 

By Skiddaw seen, — 40 

Neighbors we were, and loving friends 

We might have been ; 

True friends though diversely inclined ; 
But heart with heart and mind with mind, 
Where the main fibres are entwined. 

Through Nature's skill, 
May even by contraries be joined 

More closely still. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. I43 

The tear will start, and let it flow ; 

Thou " poor Inhabitant below," 5° 

At this dread moment — even so — 

Might we together 
Have sate and talked where gowans blow, 

Or on wild heather. 

What treasures would have then been placed 
Within my reach ; of knowledge graced 
By fancy, what a rich repast ! 

But why go on ? — 
Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 

His grave grass-grown. 60 

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
Lies gathered to his Father's side, 

Soul- moving sight ! 
Yet one to which is not denied 

Some sad delight. 

For he is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath early found among the dead, 

Harbored where none can be misled, 

Wronged, or distrest ; 7° 

And surely here it may be said 

That such are blest. 

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace 
Checked ofttimes in a devious race, 



144 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

May He who halloweth the place 

Where Man is laid 
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 
For which it prayed ! 

Sighing I turned away ; but ere 

Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 80 

Music that sorrow comes not near, — 

A ritual hymn, 
Chanted in love that casts out fear 

By Seraphim. 



THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, 
NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE. 

1803. — 1845. 

Too frail to keep the lofty vow 

That must have followed when his brow 

Was wreathed — " The Vision " tells us how — 

With holly spray, 
He faltered, drifted to and fro, 

And passed away. 

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng 
Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
Over the grave of Burns we hung 

In social grief — 10 

Indulged as if it were a wrong 

To seek relief. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 145 

But, leaving each unquiet theme 
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, 
And prompt to welcome every gleam 

Of good and fair, 
Let us beside this limpid Stream 

Breathe hopeful air. 



Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight ; 

Think rather of those moments bright 20 

When to the consciousness of right 

His course was true. 
When Wisdom prospered in his sight, 

And virtue grew. 

Yes, freely let our hearts expand, 
Freely as in youth's season bland, 
When side by side, his Book in hand, 

We wont to stray. 
Our pleasure varying at command 

Of each sweet Lay. 30 

How oft inspired must he have trode 
These pathways, yon far-stretching road ! 
There lurks his home ; in that Abode, 

With mirth elate, 
Or in his nobly-pensive mood, 

The Rustic sate. 

Proud thoughts that Image overawes ; 
Before it humbly let us pause, 
10 



146 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And ask of Nature, from what cause 

And by what rules 40 

She trained her Burns to win applause 

That shames the Schools. 

Through busiest street and loneliest glen 

Are felt the flashes of his pen ; 

He rules 'mid winter snows, and when 

Bees fill their hives ; 
Deep in the general heart of men 

His power survives. 

What need of fields in some far clime 

Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 50 

And all that fetched the flowing rhyme 

From genuine springs, 
Shall dwell together till old Time 

Folds up his wings? 

Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ; 
The rueful conflict, the heart riven 

With vain endeavor, 
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven 

Effaced forever. 60 

But why to Him confine the prayer, 
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear 
On the frail heart the purest share 

With all that live ? — 
The best of what we do and are, 

Just God, forgive ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 147 

TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 

AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER. 
1803. — 1807. 

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 

I sought the untimely grave of Burns ; 

Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns 

With sorrow true ; 
And more would grieve, but that it turns 

Trembling to you ! 

Through twilight shades of good and ill 

Ye now are panting up life's hill, 

And more than common strength and skill 

Must ye display, 10 

If ye would give the better will 

Its lawful sway. 

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear 
Intemperance with less harm, beware ! 
But if the Poet's wit ye share, 

Like him can speed 
The social hour — of tenfold care 

There will be need ; 

For honest men delight will take 

To spare your failings for his sake, 20 



148 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 

Your steps pursue ; 
And of your Father's name will make 

A snare for you. 

Far from their noisy haunts retire. 
And add your voices to the quire 
That sanctify the cottage fire 

With service meet ; 
T^iere seek the genius of your Sire, 

His spirit greet ; 3° 

Or where, 'mid '' lonely heights and hows," 
He paid to Nature tuneful vows ; 
Or wiped his honorable brows 

Bedewed with toil, 
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 

Upturned the soil ; 

His judgment with benignant ray 
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
But ne'er to a seductive lay 

Let faith be given : 4o 

Nor deem that '' light which leads astray. 

Is light from Heaven." 

Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
Be independent, generous, brave ; 
Your Father such example gave. 

And such revere ; 
But be admonished by his grave, x 

And think, and fear ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 149 

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 

(AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.) 
1803. — 1807. 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head : 

And these gray rocks ; that household lawn ; 

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn j 

This fall of water that doth make 

A murmur near the silent lake ; 

This little bay ; a quiet road 

That holds in shelter thy Abode — 10 

In truth together do ye seem 

Like something fashioned in a dream ; 

Such Forms as from their covert peep 

When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 

But, O fair Creature ! in the light 

Of common day, so heavenly bright, 

I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 

I bless thee with a human heart ; 

God shield thee to thy latest years ! 

Thee neither know I, nor thy peers ; 20 

And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray . 
For thee when I am far away ; 



150 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

For never saw I mien, or face, 

In which more plainly I could trace 

Benignity and home-bred sense 

Ripening in perfect innocence. 

Here scattered, like a random seed. 

Remote from men. Thou dost not need 

The embarrassed look of shy distress, 30 

And maidenly shamefacedness ; 

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 

The freedom of a Mountaineer ; 

A face with gladness overspread ! 

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 

And seemliness complete, that sways 

Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 

With no restraint but such as springs 

From quick and eager visitings 

Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 40 

Of thy few words of English speech : 

A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 

That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 

So have I, not unmoved in mind. 

Seen birds of tempest-loving kind 

Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful? 
O happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 5° 

Adopt your homely ways and dress, 
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 151 

More like a grave reality : 

Thou art to me but as a wave 

Of the wild sea ; and I would have 

Some claim upon thee, if I could, 

Though but of common neighborhood. 

What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 

Thy elder Brother I would be, 60 

Thy Father — anything to thee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have I had ; and going hence 
I bear away my recompense. 
In spots like these it is we prize 
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
Then, why should I be loath to stir? 
I feel this place was made for her ; 
To give new pleasure like the past, 70 

Continued long as life shall last. 
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart, 
Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; 
For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
As fair before me shall behold 
As I do now the cabin small, 
The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 
And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! 



152 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

ADDRESS 

TO KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE. 

From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our 
view, — a ruined Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had 
made it) at some distance from the shore, backed by a Cove of the 
Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. The 
Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, 
appearing to rise out of the water, — mists rested upon the moun- 
tain side, with spots of sunshine ; there was a mild desolation in 
the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the 
Castle was wild, yet stately, — not dismantled of turrets, nor the 
walls broken down, though obviously a ruin. — Extract from the 
Journal of my Companion. 

1803. — 1807. 

Child of loud- throated War ! the mountain Stream 

Roars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest 

Is come, and thou art silent in thy age. 

Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught 

Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. 

Oh ! there is life that breathes not ; Powers there are 

That touch each other to the quick in modes 

Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, 

No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care 

Cast off — abandoned by thy rugged Sire, 10 

Nor by soft Peace adopted ; though, in place 

And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem 

But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord, 

Huge Cruachan (a thing that meaner hills 

Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm) ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 153 

Yet he, not loath, in favor of thy claims 

To reverence, suspends his own ; submitting 

All that the God of Nature hath conferred, 

All that he holds in common with the stars, 

To the memorial majesty of Time 20 

Impersonated in thy calm decay ! 

Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved ! 

Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light 

Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front. 

Do thou, in turn, be paramount ; and rule 

Over the pomp and beauty of a scene 

Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods unite 

To pay thee homage ; and with these are joined. 

In willing admiration and respect, 

Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called 3^ 

Youthful as Spring. — Shade of departed Power, 

Skeleton of unfleshed humanity, 

The chronicle were welcome that should call 

Into the compass of distinct regard 

The toils and struggles of thy infant years ! 

Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice ; 

Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, 

Frozen by distance ; so, majestic Pile, 

To the perception of this Age, appear 

Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued 4- 

And quieted in character, — the strife, 

The pride, the fury uncontrollable. 

Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades ! 



IS4 SELECTIONS FROM' WORDSWORTH, 

GLEN-ALMAIN ; 

OR, THE NARROW GLEN. 
1803. — 1807. 

In this still place, remote from men, 

Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen ; 

In this still place, where murmurs on 

But one meek streamlet, only one : 

He sang of battles, and the breath 

Of stormy war, and violent death ; 

And should, methinks, when all was past, 

Have rightfully been laid at last 

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 

As by a spirit turbulent ; 

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 

And everything unreconciled ; 

In some complaining, dim retreat, 

For fear and melancholy meet ; 

But this is calm ; there cannot be 

A more entire tranquillity. 

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed, 
Or is it but a groundless creed ? 
What matters it ? I blame them not 
Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 
Was moved, and in such way expressed 
Their notion of its perfect rest. 
A convent, even a hermit's cell, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. I55 

Would break the silence of this Dell ; 

It is not quiet, is not ease ; 

But something deeper far than these : 

The separation that is here 

Is of the grave ; and of austere 

Yet happy feehngs of the dead ; 

And therefore was it rightly said 3o 

That Ossian, last of all his race ! 

Lies buried in this lonely place. 



STEPPING WESTWARD. 

While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch 
Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut 
where, in the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably enter- 
tained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of 
that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to 
us, by way of greeting, " What, you are stepping westward?" 

1803.— 1807. 

" What, you are stepping westward "i " — " Yea^ 

— 'T would be a wildish destiny, 

If we, who thus together roam 

In a strange Land, and far from home, 

Were in this place the guests of Chance ; 

Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 

Though home or shelter he had none, 

With such a sky to lead him on? 



156 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

The dewy ground was dark and cold ; 
Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 
And stepping westward seemed to be 
A kind of heavenly destiny : 
I liked the greeting ; 't was a sound 
Of something without place or bound : 
And seemed to give me spiritual right 
To travel through that region bright. 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 
Was walking by her native lake ; 
The salutation had to me 
The very sound of courtesy ; 
Its power was felt ; and while my eye 
Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, 
The echo of the voice enwrought 
A human sweetness with the thought 
Of travelling through the world that lay 
Before me in my endless way. 



THE SOLITARY REAPER. 

1803. — 1807. 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 157 

listen ! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chant 

More welcome notes to weary bands 10 

Of travellers in some shady haunt, 

Among Arabian sands : 

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking the silence of the seas 

Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things. 

And batdes long ago ; 20 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Familiar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 

That has been, and may be again ? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 

1 saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
I listened, motionless and still ; 

And as I mounted up the hill, 30 

The music in my heart I bore. 
Long after it was heard no more. 



IS8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



YARROW UNVISITED. 

(See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks 
of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, 

beginning, — 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow! ") 

1803. — 1807. 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 
Then said my " winsome Marrow ^^ 
" Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside, 
And see the Braes of Yarrow." 



*^ Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 

Who have been buying, selling, 10 

Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own ; 

Each maiden to her dwelling ! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 

But we will downward with the Tweed, 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

There 's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 

The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 20 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 159 

There 's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow ? 

What 's Yarrow but a river bare, 

That glides the dark hills under? 

There are a thousand such elsewhere 

As worthy of your wonder." 

— Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; 

My True-love sighed for sorrow ; zo 

And looked me in the face, to think 

I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

"Oh ! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 

But we will leave it growing. 

O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 

We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; 

But, though so near, we will not turn 

Into the dale of Yarrow. 40 

Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow -, 
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them ; will not go 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There 's such a place as Yarrow. 



l6o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 

It must, or we shall rue it : 50 

We have a vision of our own : 

Ah ! why should we undo it? 

The treasured dreams of times long past, 

We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! 

For when we 're there, although 't is fair, 

'T will be another Yarrow ! 

If Care with freezing years should come, 

And wandering seem but folly, — 

Should we be loath to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy ; 60 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

'T will soothe us in our sorrow. 

That earth has something yet to show, 

The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 



THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER 
HUSBAND. 

At Jedborough, my companion and I went into private lodgings for a 
few days ; and the following Verses were called forth by the charac- 
ter and domestic situation of our Hostess. 

1803. — 1807. 

Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers. 
And call a train of laughing Hours ; 
And bid them dance, and bid them smg ; 
And thou, too, mingle in the ring ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. i6i 

Take to thy heart a new dehght ; 

If not, make merry in despite 

That there is One who scorns thy power : 

But dance ! for under Jedborough Tower 

A Matron dwells who, though she bears 

The weight of more than seventy years, lo 

Lives in the light of youthful glee. 

And she will dance and sing with thee. 

Nay ! start not at that Figure — there ! 
Him who is rooted to his chair ! 
Look at him — look again ! for he 
Hath long been of thy family. 
With legs that move not, if they can, 
And useless arms, a trunk of man. 
He sits, and with a vacant eye, — 
A sight to make a stranger sigh ! 20 

Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom ; 
His world is in this single room : 
Is this a place for mirthful cheer? 
Can merry-making enter here ? 

The joyous Woman is the Mate 

Of him in that forlorn estate ! 

He breathes a subterraneous damp ; 

But bright as Vesper shines her lamp ; 

He is as mute as Jedborough Tower ; 

She jocund as it was of yore, 3^ 

With all its bravery on ; in times 

When all alive with merry chimes, 

Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 

It roused the Vale to holiday. 
II 



1 62 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

I praise thee, Matron ! and thy due 
Is praise, heroic praise, and true ! 
With admiration I behold 
Thy gladness unsubdued and bold. 
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
The picture of a life well spent : 40 

This do I see ; and something more, — , 
A strength unthought of heretofore ! 
Delighted am I for thy sake ; 
And yet a higher joy partake ; 
Our Human-nature throws away 
Its second twilight, and looks gay ; 
A land of promise and of pride 
Unfolding, wide as life is wide. 

Ah ! see her helpless Charge ! enclosed 
Within himself as seems, composed ; 50 

To fear of loss, and hope of gain, 
The strife of happiness and pain. 
Utterly dead ! yet in the guise 
Of little infants, when their eyes 
Begin to follow to and fro 
The persons that before them go, 
He tracks her motions, quick or slow. 
Her buoyant spirit can prevail 
Where common cheerfulness would fail ; 
She strikes upon him with the heat 60 

Of July suns ; he feels it sweet, — 
An animal delight, though dim ! 
'T is all that now remains for him. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 163 

The more I looked, I wondered more — 
And while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 
Some inward trouble suddenly 
Broke from the Matron's strong black eye — 
A remnant of uneasy light, 
A flash of something over-bright ! 
Nor long this mystery did detain 7° 

My thoughts ; she told in pensive strain 
That she had borne a heavy yoke. 
Been stricken by a twofold stroke : 
Ill-health of body ; and had pined 
Beneath worse ailments of the mind. 

So be it ! — but let praise ascend 
To Him who is our Lord and friend ! 
Who from disease and suffering 
Hath called for thee a second spring ; 
Repaid thee for that sore distress So 

By no untimely joyousness, 
Which makes of thine a blissful state, 
And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 



ON APPROACHING HOME, 

AFTER A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
1803. — 1815. 

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale ! 
Say that we come, and come by this day's light ; 
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height, 



1 64 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale ; 

There let a mystery of joy prevail, — 

The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite ; 

And Rover whine, as at a second sight 

Of near-approaching good that shall not fail ; 

And from that Infant's face let joy appear ; 

Yea, let our Mary's one companion child — 

That hath her six weeks' sohtude beguiled 

With intimations manifold and dear, 

While we have wandered over wood and wild — 

Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

1804. — 1807. 

BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass, 
Thy twofold shout I hear ; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 165 

Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darhng of the Spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my schoolboy days 

I listened to ; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 

In bush, and tree, and sky. 20 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget - 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 30 

An unsubstantial, faery place : 

That is fit home for Thee ! 



1 66 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

"SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT." 

1804. — 1807. 

She was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A Traveller between life and death ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 167 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned. 

To warn , to comfort, and command ; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 

With something of angelic light. 30 



THE DAFFODILS; 

OR, "I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD." 

1804. — 1807. 

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once \ saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils ; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way. 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced ; but they 
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 
A poet could not but be gay, \ 

In such a jocund company : 



1 68 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought : 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 20 

They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude ; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills. 

And dances with the daffodils. 



THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET — 

1804. — 1807. 

Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
Where art thou, worse to me than dead ? 
Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! 
Or, if the grave be now thy bed, 
Why am I ignorant of the same 
That I may rest ; and neither blame 
Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 

Seven years, alas ! to have received 
No tidings of an only child ; 
To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 
And been for evermore beguiled. 
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
Was ever darkness like to this ? 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 169 

He was among the prime in worth, 

An object beauteous to behold ; 

Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 

Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 

If things ensued that wanted grace, 

As hath been said, they were not base ; 20 

And never blush was on my face. 

Ah ! little doth the young-one dream, 
When full of play and childish cares. 
What power is in his wildest scream. 
Heard by his mother unawares ! 
He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
Years to a mother bring distress, 
But do not make her love the less. 

Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 

From that ill thought ; and being blind, 30 

Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong ; 

Kind mother have I been, as kind 

As ever breathed : " and that is true ; 

I Ve wet my path with tears like dew, 

Weeping for him when no one knew. 

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 

Hopeless of honor and of gain. 

Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door ; 

Think not of me with grief and pain ; 

I now can see with better eyes ; 40 

And worldly grandeur I despise. 

And fortune with her gifts and lies. 



170 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; 
They mount — how short a voyage brings 
The wanderers back to their delight ! 
Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that is left to comfort thee. 

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 5° 

Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 

Or thou upon a desert thrown 

Inheritest the lion's den ; 

Or hast been summoned to the deep, 

Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 

An incommunicable sleep. 

I look for ghosts ; but none will force 

Their way to me : 't is falsely said 

That there was ever intercourse 

Between the living and the dead ; 60 

For, surely, then I should have sight 

Of him I wait for day and night. 

With love and longings infinite. 

My apprehensions come in crowds ; 

I dread the rustling of the grass ; 

The very shadows of the clouds 

Have power to shake me as they pass : 

I question things and do not find 

One that will answer to my mind ; 

And all the world appears unkind. 70 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 71 

Beyond participation lie 
My troubles, and beyond relief: 
If any chance to heave a sigh, 
They pity me, and not my grief. 
Then come to me, my Son, or send 
Some tidings that my woes may end ; 
I have no other earthly friend ! 



ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER DORA, 

ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT 
DAY, SEPTEMBER 1 6. 

1804. — 1815. 

Hast thou then survived — 



Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, 

Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 

The most forlorn — one life of that bright star, 

The second glory of the Heavens ? — Thou hast ; 

Already hast survived that great decay. 

That transformation through the wide earth felt, 

And by all nations. In that Being's sight 

From whom the Race of human kind proceed, 

A thousand years are but as yesterday ; 

And one day's narrow circuit is to Him 

Not less capacious than a thousand years. 

But what is time ? What outward glory ? Neither 

A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 

Through " heaven's eternal year." Yet hail to Thee, 

Frail, feeble Monthling ! — by that name, methinks. 



172 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out 

Not idly. — Hadst thou been of Indian birth, 

Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, 

And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 20 

Or to the churlish elements exposed 

On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night. 

Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face 

Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, 

Would, with imperious admonition, then 

Have scored thine age, and punctually timed 

Thine infant history, on the minds of those 

Who might have wandered with thee. — Mother's love, 

Nor less than mother's love in other breasts. 

Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed, 3° 

Do for thee what the finger of the heavens 

Doth all too often harshly execute 

For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds 

Where fancy hath small liberty to grace 

The affections, to exalt them or refine ; 

And the maternal sympathy itself. 

Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie 

Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 

Happier, far happier, is thy lot and ours ! 

Even now — to solemnize thy helpless state, 40 

And to enliven in the mind's regard 

Thy passive beauty — parallels have risen. 

Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect. 

Within the region of a father's thoughts, 

Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. 

And first ; — thy sinless progress, through a world, 

By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 173 

Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds 

Moving untouched in silver purity, 

And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. 50 

Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain : 

But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn 

With brightness ! leaving her to post along, 

And range about, disquieted in change. 

And still impatient of the shape she wears. 

Once up, once down the hill, one journey. Babe, 

That will suffice thee ; and it seems that now 

Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine ; 

Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st 

In such a heedless peace. Alas ! full soon 60 

Hath this conception, grateful to behold. 

Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er 

By breathing mist ; and thine appears to be 

A mournful labor, while to her is given 

Hope, and a renovation without end. 

— That smile forbids the thought ; for on thy face 

Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, 

To shoot and circulate ; smiles have there been seen j 

Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports 

The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers 70 

Thy loneliness : or shall those smiles be called 

Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore 

This untried world, and to prepare thy way 

Through a strait passage, intricate and dim? 

Such are they ; and the same are tokens, signs, 

Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, 

Joy, as her holiest language shall adopt ; 

And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own. 



1/4 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



THE SMALL CELANDINE. 

1804. — 1807. 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain ; 
And, the first moment that the sun may shine, 
Bright as the sun himself, 't is out again ! 

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, 
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest. 

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed 
And recognized it, though an altered form. 
Now standing forth an offering to the blast. 
And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 

I stopped, and said with inly muttered voice, 
" It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold : 
This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
But its necessity in being old. 

The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew ; 
It cannot help itself in its decay ; 
Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue." 
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey. 

To be a Prodigal's Favorite — then, worse truth, 
A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot ! 
O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth 
Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 75 



ODE TO DUTY. 

"Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum 
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim." 

1805. — 1807. 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 

Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 

Thou, who art victory and law 

When empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain temptations dost set free ; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 

Be on them ; who, in love and truth, ^o 

Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth : 

Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 

Who do thy work, and know it not : 

Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be, 

When love is an unerring light, 

And joy its own security. 20 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 

Live in the spirit of this creed ; 

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 



176 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

I, loving freedom, and untried ; 

No sport of every random gust, 

Yet being to myself a guide, 

Too blindly have reposed my trust : 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 30 

The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control ; 

But in the quietness of thought : 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and 
strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 50 

Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 177 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give ; 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 



TO A SKYLARK. 

1805. — 1807. 

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 

Singing, singing, 
With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 

Lift me, guide me till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 

And to-day my heart is weary ; 

Had I now the wings of a Faery, 10 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There is madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine ; 

Lift me, guide me high and high 

To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning 
Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
And, though little troubled with sloth, 
12 



1 78 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Drunken Lark ! thou would 'st be loath 20 

To be such a traveller as I. 

Happy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain river 

Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver, 

Joy and jollity be with us both ! 

Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 

As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 

I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 30 

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 



FIDELITY. 

1805. — 1807. 

A BARKING sound the Shepherd hears, - 
A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
He halts — and searches with his eyes 
Among the scattered rocks : 
And now at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
And ins.tandy a dog is seen. 
Glancing through that covert green. 

The Dog is not of mountain breed ; 
Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 179 

With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 

Unusual in its cry : 

Nor is there any one in sight 

All round, in hollow or on height ; 

Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; 

What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till Jane, December's snow ; 

A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below ! 20 

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 

Remote from public road or dwelling, 

Pathway, or cultivated land ; 

From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 

Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 

The crags repeat the raven's croak. 

In symphony austere ; 

Thither the rainbow comes, — the cloud, 

And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 3° 

And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast. 

That, if it could, would hurry past ; 

But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, a while 

The Shepherd stood ; then makes his way 

O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog 

As quickly as he may ; 

Nor far had gone before he found 

A human skeleton on the ground ; 



i8o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

The appalled Discoverer with a sigh 40 

Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 

The Man had fallen, that place of fear ! 

At length upon the Shepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear : 

He instantly recalled the name, 

And who he was, and whence he came ; 

Remembered, too, the very day 

On which the Traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 50 

This lamentable tale I tell ! 

A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 

The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, 

Repeating the same timid cry. 

This Dog had been through three months' space 

A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 

When this ill-fated Traveller died. 

The Dog had watched about the spot, 60 

Or by his master's side : 

How nourished here through such long time 

He knows, who gave that love sublime ; 

And gave that strength of feeling, great 

Above all human estimate ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. i8i 



INCIDENT 

CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVORITE DOG. 

1805. — 1807. 

On his morning rounds the Master 

Goes to learn how all things fare ; 

Searches pasture after pasture, 

Sheep and cattle eyes with care ; 

And, for silence or for talk, 

He hath comrades in his walk ; 

Four dogs, each pair of different breed, 

Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed. 

See a hare before him started ! 

• — Off they fly in earnest chase ; 10 

Every dog is eager-hearted, 

All the four are in the race : 

And the hare whom they pursue 

Knows from instinct what to do ; 

Her hope is near : no turn she makes ; 

But, like an arrow, to the river takes. 

Deep the river was and crusted 

Thinly by a one night's frost ; 

But the nimble Hare hath trusted 

To the ice, and safely crost ; 20 

She hath crost, and without heed 

All are following at full speed, 

When, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread, 

Breaks — and the greyhound, Dart, io overhead ! 



1 82 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Better fate have Prince and Swallow — 

See them cleaving to the sport ! 

Music has no heart to follow, 

Little Music, she Stops short. 

She hath neither wish nor heart, 

Hers is now another part : '^p 

A loving creature she, and brave ! 

And fondly strives her struggling friend to save. 

From the brink her paws she stretches, 

Very hands as you would say ! 

And afflicting moans she fetches, 

As he breaks the ice away. 

For herself she hath no fears, — 

Him alone she sees and hears, — 

Makes efforts with complainings ; nor gives o'er 

Until her fellow sinks to reappear no more. 40 



TRIBUTE 

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG. 

1805. — 1807. 

Lie here, without a record of thy worth. 

Beneath a covering of the common earth ! 

It is not from unwillingness to praise, 

Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise ; 

More thou deserv'st ; but this man gives to man, 

Brother to brother, this is all we can. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 183 

Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear 
Shall find thee through all changes of the year : 
This Oak points out thy grave ; the silent tree 
Will gladly stand a monument of thee. 

We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past : 
And willingly have laid thee here at last : 
For thou hadst lived till everything that cheers 
In thee had yielded to the weight of years ; 
Extreme old age had wasted thee away, 
And left thee but a glimmering of the day ; 
Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy knees, — 
I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 
Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, 
And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. 20 

It came, and we were glad ; yet tears were shed ; 
Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead ; 
Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, 
Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share ; 
But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee, 
Found scarcely anywhere in like degree ! 
For love, that comes wherever life and sense 
Are given by God, in thee was most intense ; 
A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, 
A tender sympathy, which did thee bind 30 

Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind : 
Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw 
A soul of love, love's intellectual law : — 
Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame ; 
Our tears from passion and from reason came. 
And, therefore, shalt thou be an honored name. 



184 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



WHEN, TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY 
WORLD." 

1805. — 1815. 

When, to the attractions of the busy world, 

Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen 

A habitation in this peaceful Vale, 

Sharp season followed of continual storm 

In deepest winter ; and, from week to week, 

Pathway, and lane, and public road were clogged 

With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill 

At a short distance from my cottage, stands 

A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont 

To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 10 

Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place 

Of refuge, with an unencumbered floor. 

Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, 

And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth. 

The redbreast near me hopped ; nor was I loath 

To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds 

That, for protection from the nipping blast. 

Hither repaired. — A single beech-tree grew 

Within this grove of firs ! and, on the fork 

Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest ; 20 

A last year's nest, conspicuously built 

At such small elevation from the ground 

As gave sure sign that they, who in that house 

Of nature and of love had made their home 

Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 185 

Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes 

A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock, 

Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, 

From the remotest outskirts of the grove, — 

Some nook where they had made their final stand, y^ 

Huddling together from two fears — the fear 

Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour 

Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees 

Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven 

In such perplexed and intricate array. 

That vainly did I seek beneath their stems 

A length of open space, where to and fro 

My feet might move without concern or care ; 

And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day 

Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, 40 

I ceased the shelter to frequent, — and prized, 

Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess. 

The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned 
To clotlie the fields with verdure. Other haunts 
Meanwhile were mine ; till, one bright April day, 
By chance retiring from the glare of noon 
To this forsaken covert, there I found 
A hoary pathway traced between the trees, 
And winding on with such an easy line 
Along a natural opening, that I stood 50 

Much wondering how I could have sought in vain 
For what was now so obvious. To abide, 
For an allotted interval of ease. 
Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come 
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant ; 



l86 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And with the sight of this same path — begun. 

Begun and ended, in the shady grove, 

Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind 

That, to this opportune recess allured, 
- He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 60 

A heart more wakeful ; and had worn the track 

By pacing here, unwearied and alone, 

In that habitual resdessness of foot 
• That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and o'er 

His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 

While she pursues her course through the dreary sea. 

When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, 
And taken thy first leave of those green hills 
And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth, 
Year followed year, my Brother ! and we two, 70 

Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
Each other's mind was fashioned ; and at length, 
When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 
Between us there was little other bond 
Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried 
Undying recollections ; Nature there 
Was with thee ; she, who loved us both, she still 
Was with thee ; and even so didst thou become 
A silent Poet ; from the solitude 80 

Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart 
Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. 
— Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone ; 
Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 187 

Could I withhold thy honored name, — and now 

I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. 

Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns 

Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong j 

And there I sit at evening, when the steep 90 

Of Silver- how, and Grasmere's peaceful lake, 

And one green island, gleam between the stems 

Of the dark firs, — a visionary scene ! 

And, while I gaze upon the spectacle 

Of clouded splendor, on this dream-like sight 

Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee. 

My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. 

Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou, 

Muttering the verses which I muttered first 

Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 100 

Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck 

In some far region, here, while o'er my head, 

At every impulse of the moving breeze. 

The fir- grove murmurs with a sea-like sound. 

Alone I tread this path, — for aught I know. 

Timing my steps to thine ; and, with a store 

Of undistinguishable sympathies. 

Mingling most earnest wishes for the day 

When we, and others whom we love, shall meet 

A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. no 



1 88 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS, 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM, 
PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 

1805. — 1807. 

I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile ! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee ; 
I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there ; 
It trembled, but it never passed away. 

How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep ; 
No mood, which season takes away, or brings ; i 
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand, 
To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, 
The light that never was, on sea or land, 
The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile, 

Amid a world how different from this ! 

Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 

On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 2 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 189 

Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine 
Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of heaven ; — 
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
The very sweetest had to thee been given. 

A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 

Such Picture would I at that time have made : 30 

And seen the soul of truth in every part, 

A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. 

So once it would have been, — 't is so no more ; 
I have submitted to a new control : 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
A deep distress hath humanized my Soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 

A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 

The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40 

Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the Friend, 
If he had Hved, of Him whom I deplore, 
This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

O 't is a passionate Work — yet wise and well, 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
That Hulk which labors in the deadly swell. 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 



190 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 

I love to see the look with which it braves, 50 

Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time. 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
Is to be pitied ; for 't is surely blind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 

And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 

Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 

Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60 



TO THE DAISY. 

1805.-1815. 

Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have 
A place upon thy Poet's grave, 
I welcome thee once more : 
But He, who was on land, at sea, 
My Brother, too, in loving thee, 
Although he loved more silently, 
Sleeps by his native shore. 

Ah ! hopeful, hopeful was the day 

When to that ship he bent his way, 

To govern and to guide : 

His wish was gained : a little time 

Would bring him back, in manhood's pdme 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 191 

And free for life, these hills to climb ; 
With all his wants supplied. 

And full of hope day followed day 

While that stout Ship at anchor lay 

Beside the shores of Wight ; 

The May had then made all things green ; 

And, floating there, in pomp serene, 

That Ship was goodly to be seen, 20 

His pride and his delight ! 

Yet then, when called ashore, he sought 
The tender peace of rural thought : 
In more than happy mood 
To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers ! 
He then would steal at leisure hours, 
And loved you glittering in your bowers, 
A starry multitude. 

But hark the word ! — the Ship is gone ; — 

Returns from her long course : — anon 30 

Sets sail : — in season due 

Once more on English earth they stand : 

But, when a third time from the land 

They parted, sorrow was at hand 

For Him and for his crew. 

Ill-fated Vessel ! — ghastly shock ! 

— At length delivered from the rock, 

The deep she hath regained ; 

And through the stormy night they steer, 

Laboring for life, in hope and fear, 40 

To reach a safer shore — how near, 

Yet not to be attained ! 



192 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

" Silence ! " the brave Commander cried ; 
To that calm word a shriek replied : 
It was the last death-shriek. 
— A few (my soul oft sees that sight) 
Survive upon the tall mast's height ; 
But one dear remnant of the night — 
For Him in vain I seek. 

Six weeks beneath the moving sea 50 

He lay in slumber quietly ; 

Unforced by wind or wave 

To quit the Ship for which he died, 

(All claims of duty satisfied ;) 

And there they found him at her side, 

And bore him to the grave. 

Vain service ! yet not vainly done 

For this, if other end were none, 

That He, who had been cast 

Upon a way of life unmeet 60 

For such a gentle Soul and sweet, 

Should find an undisturbed retreat 

Near what he loved, at last — 

That neighborhood of grove and field 

To Him a resting-place should yield, 

A meek man and a brave ! 

The birds shall sing and ocean make 

A mournful murmur for his sake ; 

And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake 

Upon his senseless grave. 70 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 193 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN 
THE COUNTRY. 

1805. — 1807. 

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! 

— There is a nest in a green dale, 

A harbor and a hold ; 

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see 

Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 

A light to young and old. 

There, healthy as a shepherd boy. 

And treading among flowers of joy 

Which at no season fade, 

Thou, whil^ thy babes around thee cling, 10 

Shalt show us how divine a thing 

A Woman may be made. 

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. 

Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh, 

A melancholy slave ; 

But an old age serene and bright. 

And lovely as a Lapland night, 

Shall lead thee to thy grave. 



13 



194 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 

1806. — 1807. 

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 

That every man in arms should wish to be ? 

— It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 

Among the tasks of real life, hath* wrought 

Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : 

Whose high endeavors are an inward light 

That makes the path before him always bright : 

Who, with a natural instinct to discern 

What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 

Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 10 

But makes his moral being his prime care ; 

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 

And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 

Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 

In face of these doth exercise a power 

Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 

By objects, which might force the soul to abate 

Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 20 

Is placable — because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice ; 

More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure. 

As tempted more ; more able to endure 

As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 1 95 

— 'T is he whose law is reason ; who depends 
Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30 

And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
He labors good on good to fix, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows : 

— Who, if he rise to station of command. 
Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
On honorable terms, or else retire. 

And in himself possess his own desire ; 

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 40 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 

Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall. 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 

Whose powers shed round him in the common strife. 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 5° 

Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired \ 

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed. 

Come when it will, is equal to the need : 

^- He who, though thus endued as with a sense 



196 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And faculty for storm and turbulence, 

Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 60 

Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 

Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 

It is his darling passion to approve ; 

More brave for this, that he hath much to love : — 

'T is, finally, the Man, who, lifted high. 

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye. 

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 

Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 

Plays, in the many games of life, that one 70 

Where what he most doth value must be won : 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay. 

Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 

Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 

Looks forward, persevering to the last. 

From well to better, daily self-surpast : 

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 

Forever, and to noble deeds give birth. 

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 

And leave a dead unprofitable name — 80 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 

This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 

That every Man in arms should wish to be. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 197 



STRAY PLEASURES. 

" Pleasure is spread through the earth 

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find." 

1806. — 1807. 

By their floating mill, 

That lies dead and still, 
Behold yon Prisoners three, 

The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames ! 
The platform is small, but gives room for them all ; 
And they 're dancing merrily. 

From the shore come the notes 

To their mill where it floats. 
To their house and their mill tethered fast : 
To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile, 10 
They from morning to even take whatever is given ; — 
And many a blithe day they have past. 

In sight of the spires. 

All alive with the fires 
Of the sun going down to his rest. 
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky. 
They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free, 
While they dance on the calm river's breast. 

Man and Maidens wheel. 

They themselves make the reel, 20 

And their music 's a prey which they seize ; 
It plays not for them, — what matter? 'tis theirs; 



198 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And if they had care, it has scattered their cares ; 
While they dance, crying, " Long as ye please 1 " 

They dance not for me. 

Yet mine is their glee ! 
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find ; 
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, 
Moves all Nature to gladness and mirth. 3° 

The showers of the spring 
Rouse the birds, and they sing ; 

If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, 

Each leaf, that and this, his neighbor will kiss ; 

Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother ; 

They are happy, for that is their right ! 



"YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO." 

1806.— 1807. 

Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
Solitary, clear, profound. 
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
Giving to her sound for sound ! 

Unsolicited reply 

To a babbling wanderer sent ; 

Like her ordinary cry. 

Like — but oh, how different ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 199 

Hears not also mortal Life ? 

Hear not we, unthinking Creatures ! 10 

Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 

Voices of two different natures ? 

Have not we too ? — yes, we have 
Answers, and we know not whence ; 
Echoes from beyond the grave, 
Recognized intelligence ! 

Such rebounds our inward ear 

Catches sometimes from afar — 

Listen, ponder, hold them dear ; 

For of God, — of God they are. 20 



LINES 

Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy 
day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the disso- 
lution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected. 

1806.— 1807. 

Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up 

With which she speaks when storms are gone, 

A mighty unison of streams ! 

Of all her Voices, One ! 

Loud is the Vale ; — this inland Depth 
In peace is roaring Hke the Sea ; 



200 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Yon star upon the mountain-top 
Is listening quietly. 

Sad was I, even to pain deprest, 

Jmportunate and heavy load ! lo 

The Comforter hath found me here, 

Upon this lonely road ; 

And many thousands now are sad — 
Wait the fulfilment of their fear ; 
For he must die who is their stay, 
Their glory disappear. 

A Power is passing from the earth 

To breathless Nature's dark abyss ; 

But when the great and good depart 

What is it more than this — 20 

That Man, who is from God sent forth, 
Doth yet again to God return ? — 
Such ebb and flow must ever be, 
Then wherefore should we mourn ? 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 201 

POWER OF MUSIC. 

1806. — 1807. 

An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith may grow bold, 
And take to herself all the wonders of old, — 
Near the stately Pantheon you '11 meet with the same 
In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name. 

His station is there ; and he works on the crowd, 
He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; 
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim, — 
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him ? 

What an eager assembly ! what an empire is this ! 
The weary have life, and the hungry have bhss ; 10 

The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest ; 
And the guilt-burdened soul is no longer opprest. 

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night, 
So He, where he stands, is a centre of light ; 
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack, 
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back. 

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste — 
What matter ! he 's caught, and his time runs to waste ; 
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret ; 
And the half- breathless Lamplighter — he 's in the net ! 20 



202 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; 
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store, — 
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease ; 
She sees the Musician, 't is all that she sees ! 

He stands, backed by the wall ; he abates not his din ; 
His hat gives him vigor, with boons dropping in, 
From the old and the young, from the poorest : and there ! 
The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. 

blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand 

Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band ; 3° 

1 am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the while 

If they speak 't is to praise, and they praise with a smile. 

That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height. 
Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; 
Can he keep himself still, if he would ? Oh, not he 1 
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. 

Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch ; like a tower 
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour ! — 
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound. 
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. 4° 

Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a stream ; 
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream : 
They are deaf to your murmurs, — they care not for you, 
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 203 



ODE 

ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
EARLY CHILDHOOD. 

1803-6. — 1807. 
I. 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore : 
Turn whereso'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

n. 
The Rainbow comes and goes, 10 

And lovely is the Rose ; 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

m. 
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 

And while the young lambs bound 20 



204 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong : 
The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains thiong, 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 

Land and sea 3° 

Give themselves up to jollity, 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep hoHday ; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 

IV. 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make : I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, 40 

The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the Children are culling 

On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 205 

And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 5° 

— But there 's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
The Pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 

V. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60 

And cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness. 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : • 

Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows 

He sees it in his joy ; 70 

The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common. day. 



2o6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 

And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 

And no unworthy aim. So 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
Forget the glories he hath known, 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 



VII. 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 

A six years' Darling of a pygmy size ! 

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 

With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90 

Some fragment from his dream of human life. 

Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ! 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 
And this hath now his heart. 

And unto this he frames his song : 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 100 

And with new joy and pride 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 207 

The little Actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 



VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity ; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 



208 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

IX. 

O joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 130 

That Nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hopes still fluttering in his breast : — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 140 

But for those obstinate questionings 

Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings ; 

Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 

But for those first affections, 

Tliose shadowy recollections. 
Which, be they what they may, 150 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 209 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 160 

Hence in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither. 

Can in a moment travel thither. 
And see the Children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young Lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound ! 170 

We in thought will join your throng. 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 
^ Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight. 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind ; 180 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be : 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering ; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
14 



2IO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XI. 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 190 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret. 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The Clouds thd:t gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 200 

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART.' 

1807 (?).— 1807. 

O Nightingale ! thou surely art 

A creature of a " fiery heart : " — 

These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce ; 

Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 

Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 

Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 

A song in mockery and despite 

Of shades, and dews, and silent night, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 211 

And steady bliss, and all the loves 

Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 10 

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say 

His homely tale, this very day ; 

His voice was buried among trees, 

Yet to be come-at by the breeze : 

He did not cease, but cooed — and cooed. 

And somewhat pensively he wooed : 

He sang of love, with quiet blending. 

Slow to begin, and never ending ; 

Of serious faith, and inward glee : 

That was the song — the song for me ! 20 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, 

UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, 
TO THE ESTATES AND HONORS OF HIS ANCESTORS. 

1807. — 1807. 

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate. 
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song. — 
The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
A festal strain that hath been silent long : — 

" From town to town, from tower to tower, 

The red rose is a gladsome flower. 

Her thirty years of winter past. 

The red rose is revived at last ; 

She lifts her head for endless spring, 

For everlasting blossoming : 10 



212 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Both roses flourish, red and white : 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended, 

And all old troubles now are ended. — 

Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 

Who is the flower of Lancaster ! 

Behold her how She smiles to-day 

On this great throng, this bright array ! 

Fair greeting doth she send to all 

From every corner of the hall ; 20 

Both chiefly from above the board 

Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 

A Clifford to his own restored ! 

They came with banner, spear, and shield ; 
And it was proved in Bosworth-field 
Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
Earth helped him with the cry of blood : 
St. George was for us, and the might 
Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 
Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, 30 

We loudest in the faithful north : 
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
Our streams proclaim a welcoming ; 
Our strong abodes and castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 

How glad is Skipton at this hour, — 
Though lonely, a deserted Tower ; 
Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom. 
We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
How glad Pendragon — though the sleep 40 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 213 

Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 

A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 

As in a dream her own renewing. 

Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem 

Beside her little humble stream ; 

And she that keepeth watch and ward 

Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; 

They both are happy at this hour, 

Though each is but a lonely Tower : — 

But here is perfect joy and pride 5° 

For one fair House by Emont's side, 

This day, distinguished without peer 

To see her Master and to cheer — 

Him, and his Lady-mother dear ! 

Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
When the fatherless was born — 
Give her wings that she may fly. 
Or she sees her infant die ! 
Swords that are with slaughter wild 
Hunt the Mother and the Child. 60 

Who will take them from the light ? 
— Yonder is a man in sight — 
Yonder is a house — but where ? 
No, they must not enter there. 
To the caves, and to the brooks, 
To the clouds of heaven she looks ; 
She is speechless, but her eyes 
Pray in ghostly agonies. 
Blissful Mary, Mother mild, 

Maid and Mother undefiled, 70 

Save a Mother and her Child ! 



214 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Now Who is he that bounds with joy 
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy? 
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 
Light as the wind along the grass. 
Can this be He who hither came 
In secret, Hke a smothered flame ? 
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 
God loves the Child ; and God hath willed 80 

That those dear words should be fulfilled, * 

The Lady's words, when forced away, 
The last she to her Babe did say : 
' My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 
I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, 
For lowly shepherd's life is best ! ' 

Alas ! when evil men are strong 
No life is good, no pleasure long. 
The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, 
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, 90 

And quit the flowers that summer brings 
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; 
Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
— Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 
Hear it, good man, old in days ! 
Thou tree of covert and of rest 
For this young Bird that is distrest ; 
Among thy branches safe he lay, 
And he was free to sport and play, 100 

When falcons were abroad for prey. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 215 

A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
And heaviness in Clifford's ear ! 
I said, when evil men are strong, 
No life is good, no pleasure long, — 
A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
And thankful through a weary time, 
That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
— Again he wanders forth at will, no 

And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 
Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 
Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 
Nor yet for higher sympathy. 
To his side the fallow-deer 
Came, and rested without fear ; 
The eagle, lord of land and sea, 120 

Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
And both the undying fish that swim 
Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him ; 
The pair were servants of his eye 
In their immortality ; 
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, 
Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt 
Upon the mountains visitant ; 

He hath kenned them taking wing : 130 

And into caves where Faeries sing 
He hath entered ; and been told 



2l6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

By Voices how men lived of old. 

Among the heavens his eye can see 

The face of thing that is to be ; 

And, if that men report him right, 

His tongue could whisper words of might. 

— Now another day is come, 

Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; 

He hath thrown aside his crook, 140 

And hath buried deep his book ; 

Armor rusting in his halls 

On the blood of Clifford calls ; — 

* Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance — ■ . 

Bear me to the heart of France, 

Is the longing of the Shield — 

Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ; 

Field of death, where'er thou be, 

Groan thou with our victory ! 

Happy day, and mighty hour, 150 

When our Shepherd, in his power, 

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 

To his ancestors restored, 

Like a re-appearing Star, 

Like a glory from afar, 

First shall head the flock of war ! " 

Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not know 

How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed : 

How he, long forced in humble walks to go. 

Was softened into feeling, soothed and tamed. 160 

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; 
His daily teachers had been woods and rills, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 217 

The silence that is in the starry sky, 
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 

In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : 
Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
The wisdom which adversity had bred. 



170 



Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth ; 
The Shepherd-lord was honored more and more ; 
And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
**The good Lord Clifford " was the name he bore. 



THE FORCE OF PRAYER; 

OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. — A TRADITION. 
1807. — 1815. 

•* 3!5!ff)at {% 200D for a bootless Ijene ? ♦♦ 

With these dark words begins my Tale ; 

And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring 

When Prayer is of no avail ? 

*' ffi?Fi)at IS aoo"& for a fiootlcss bene? ♦* 

The Falconer to the Lady said ; 

And she made answer, " endless sorrow ! " 

For she knew that her Son was dead. 

She knew it by the Falconer's words, 

And from the look of the Falconer's eye ; 10 

And from the love which was in her soul 

For her youthful Romilly. 



2i8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

— Young Romilly through Harden woods 
Is ranging high and low ; 
And holds a greyhound in a leash, 
To let slip upon buck or doe. 

The pair have reached that fearful chasm, 

How tempting to bestride ! 

For lordly Wharf is there pent in 

With rocks on either side. 20 

This striding-place is called The Strid, 
A name which it took of yore : 
A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
And shall a thousand more. 

And hither is young Romilly come, 
And what may now forbid 
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
Shall bound across The Strid ? ' 

He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 

That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep ? — 3° 

But the greyhound in the leash hung back. 

And checked him in his leap. 

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
And strangled by a merciless force ; 
For never more was young Romilly seen 
Till he rose a lifeless corse. 

Now there is stillness in the vale, 

And long, unspeaking sorrow : 

Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 

A name more sad than Yarrow. 40 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 219 

If for a lover the Lady wept, 

A solace she might borrow 

From death, and from the passion of death; — 

Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 

She weeps not for the wedding-day 
Which was to be to-morrow : 
Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
And hers is a mother's sorrow. 

He was a tree that stood alone, 

And proudly did its branches wave ; 50 

And the root of this delightful tree 

Was in her husband's grave ! 

Long, long in darkness did she sit. 
And her first words were, " Let there be 
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
A stately Priory ! " 

The stately Priory was reared ; 

And Wharf, as he moved along, 

To matins joined a mournful voice, 

Nor failed at even-song. 60 

And the Lady prayed in heaviness 
That looked not for rehef ! 
But slowly did her succor come. 
And a patience to her grief. 

Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
That shall lack a timely end. 
If but to God we turn, and ask 
Of Him to be our friend ! 



2 20 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



LAODAMIA. 

1814. — 1815. 

" With sacrifice before the rising morn 

Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 

And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 

Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required : 

Celestial pity I again implore : — 

Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore ! " 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heaven\vard lifts her hands ; 

While, like the sun emerging from a cloud. 

Her countenance brightens, and her eye expands ; 10 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O joy ! 
What doth she look on ? — whom doth she behold ? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 't is He ! 
And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 

That calms all fear ; " Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, 20 

Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 

Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air : 

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 

Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 221 

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp : 

Again that consummation she essayed : 

But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 

As often as that eager grasp was made. 

The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 

And re-assume his place before her sight. 30 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice ; 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne : 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
Not to appall me have the Gods bestowed 
This precious boon, and blest a sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 

His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I be, 

I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 

But in reward of thy fidelity. 40 

And something also did my worth obtain ; 

For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 

Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold : 

A generous cause a victim did demand ; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 

A self-devoted chief, by Hector slain." 

" Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best ! 

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 50 

Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 



222 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 

Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 

A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 

Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 

And he whose power restores thee hath decreed 

Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave : 

Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 

As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 60 

No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this ; 
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 
To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 
Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcae threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

" This visage tells me that my doom is past : 

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys 

Of sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 70 

Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains : 

Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 223 

" Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by force 

Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 80 

Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 

Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 

Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 

And yEson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 

The Gods to us are merciful — and they 

Yet further may relent : for mightier far 

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 

Of magic potent over sun and star, 

Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 

And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast. 90 

But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace ! " he said, — 

She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; 

The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 

Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 

In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 

No fears to beat away, no strife to heal. 

The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 100 

Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 

Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 

Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams. 
An ampler ether, a diviner air, 



224 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And fields invested with purpurea! gleams ; 
Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 

That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, no 

" The end of man's existence I discerned, 

Who fi^om ignoble games and revelry 

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight. 

While tears were thy best pastime, day and night ; 

And while my youthful peers before my eyes 

(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 

Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 

By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 

Chieftains and kings in council were detained ; 

What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 120 

The wished-for wind was given : — I then revolved 

The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 

And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 

The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 

Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 

Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 

When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 

On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 

And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 130 

The paths which we had trod ; these fountains, flowers ; 

My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 225 

But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
* Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 
Yet of their number no one dares to die ? ' 
In soul I swept the indignity away : 
Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought, 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak' 

In reason, in self-government too slow ; 140 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek > 

Our blest re-union in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; 

Be thy affection raised and solemnized. 

Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend, — 

Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 

For this the passion to excess was driven, — 

That self might be annulled : her bondage prove 

The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." — 150 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-appears ! 

Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 'tis vain : 

The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; 

And him no mortal effort can detain : 

Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, 

He through the portal takes his silent way, 

And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved. 
She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime, 
By the ^ust Gods whom no weak pity moved, 160 

IS 



226 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, 
Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers 
Of bUssful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

— Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 

And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone. 

As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 

From out the tomb of him for whom she died; 170 

And ever, when such stature they had gained 

That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. 

The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; 

A constant interchange of growth and blight ! 



DION. 

(see PLUTARCH.) 

1814. — 1820. 

I. 

Serene, and fitted to embrace. 
Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace 
Of haughtiness without pretence, 
And to unfold a still magnificence, 
Was princely Dion, in the power 
And beauty of his happier hour. 
And what pure homage then did wait 
On Dion's virtues ! while the lunar beam 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 227 

Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 

Fell round him in the grove of Academe, 10 

Softening their inbred dignity austere — 

That he, 'not too elate 

With self sufficing solitude. 
But with majestic lowliness endued, 

Might in the universal bosom reign, 
And from affectionate observance gain 
Help, under every change of adverse fate. 

II. 

Five thousand warriors, — O the rapturous day ! 

Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and shield, 

Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, 20 

To Syracuse advance in bright array. 

Who leads them on ? — The anxious people see 

Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, 

He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, 

And in a white, far-beaming corslet clad ! 

Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear 

The gazers feel ; and rushing to the plain. 

Salute those strangers as a holy train 

Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 

That brought their precious liberty again. 30 

Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each hand, 

Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine 

In seemly order stand. 
On tables set, as if for rites divine ; 
And as the great Deliverer marches by, 

He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrewn ; 
And flowers are on his person thrown 



2 28 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

In boundless prodigality ; 
Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, 
Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 40 

As if a very Deity he were ! 

III. 

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and mourn 

Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 

Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 

Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades ! 

For him who to divinity aspired, 

Not on the breath of popular applause. 

But through dependence on the sacred laws 

Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwells retired. 

Intent to trace the ideal path of right 50 

(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with starb) 

Which Dion learned to measure with sublime delight ; — 

But He hath overleaped the eternal bars ; 

And following guides whose craft holds no consent 

With aught that breathes the ethereal element. 

Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood, 

Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 

Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 

Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ; 

And oft his cogitations sink as low 60 

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 

The heaviest plummet of despair can go. 

But whence that sudden check ? that fearful start ? 

He hears an uncouth sound, — 

Anon his lifted eyes 
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 229 

A Shape of more than mortal size 

And hideous aspect, stalking round and round. 

A woman's garb the Phantom wore, 

And fiercely swept the marble floor, — 70 

Like Auster whirling to and fro. 

His force on Caspian foam to try ; 
Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
That skims the plains of Thessaly, 
Or when aloft on Maenalus he stops 
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 

IV. 

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, 
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed, 

Sweeping — vehemently sweeping, — 
No pause admitted, no design avowed ! 80 

" Avaunt, inexplicable Guest ! — avaunt," 
Exclaimed the Chieftain, — " let me rather see 
The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
The torch that flames with many a lurid flake. 
And the long train of doleful pageantry 
Which they behold whom vengeful Furies haunt ; 
Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, 
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn. 
And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne ! " 

V. 

But Shapes that come not at an earthly call 9° 

Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 

Lords of the visionary eye whose lid, 

Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 

Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Imnlement 



230 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Obeys a mystical intent ! 

Your Minister would brush away 

The spots that to my soul adhere ; 

But should she labor night and day, 

They will not, cannot disappear ; 

Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 

Which no Philosophy can brook ! 

VI. 

Ill-fated Chief ! there are whose hopes are built 

Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 

Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, 

Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! 

O matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 

Of monstrous crime ! — that horror-striking blade, 

Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid 

The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 

Shuddered the walls — the marble city wept — 

And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ; 

But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept. 

As he had fallen in magnanimity ; 

Of spirit too capacious to require 

That Destiny her course should change ; too just 

To his own native greatness to desire 

That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust. 

So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 

The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 

Released from life and cares of princely state, 

He left this moral grafted on his Fate : 

" Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, 

Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 

Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 231 

COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, 

IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER. 
1814. — 1820. 

Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood ; 
The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
Quakes — conscious of thy power ; 
The caves reply with hollow moan ; 
And vibrates, to its central stone, 
Yon time-cemented Tower ! 

And yet how fair the rural scene ! 

For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 

Beneficent as strong ; 

Pleased in refreshing dews to steep 10 

The little trembling flowers that peep 

Thy shelving rocks among. 

Hence all who love their country, love • 
To look on thee, — delight to rove 
Where they thy voice can hear ; 
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, 
Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid 
In dust, that voice is dear ! 

Along thy banks, at dead of night 

Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight ; 20 

Or stands, in warlike vest, 

Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, 



232 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

A Champion worthy of the stream, 
Yon gray tower's Hving crest ! 

But clouds and envious darkness hide 

A form not doubtfully descried : — 

Their transient mission o'er, 

O say to what blind region flee 

These Shapes of awful phantasy? 

To what untrodden shore ? 30 

Less than divine command they spurn ; 
But this we from the mountains learn. 
And this the valleys show ; 
That never will they deign to hold 
Communion where the heart is cold 
To human weal and woe. 

The man of abject soul in vain 

Shall walk the Marathonian plain ; 

Or thrid the shadowy gloom 

That still invests the guardian Pass 40 

Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 

Devoted to the tomb. 

And let no Slave his head incline, 

Or kneel, before the votive shrine 

By Uri's lake, where Tell 

Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land, 

Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand 

That day the Tyrant fell. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 233 



YARROW VISITED, 

SEPTEMBER, 1814. 
1814. — 1820. 

And is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream 

Of which my fancy cherished, 

So faithfully, a waking dream ? 

An image that hath perished ! 

O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 

To utter notes of gladness, 

And chase this silence from the air, 

That fills my heart with sadness ! 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontrolled meanderings ; 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly dehghted ; 

For not a feature of those hills 

Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection ; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 



234 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding : 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 30 

The Water-wraith ascended thrice, 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 

The haunts of happy Lovers, 

The path that leads them to the grove, 

The leafy grove that covers ; 

And Pity sanctifies the Verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow. 

The unconquerable strength of love ; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 40 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy ; 

The grace of forest charms decayed, 

And pastoral melancholy. 

That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 50 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 235 

And rising from those lofty groves, 
Behold a Ruin hoary ! 
The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 
Renowned in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in ; 

For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 

And age to wear away in ! 60 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 

The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet on this autumnal day. 

The wild-wood fruits to gather, 

And on my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather ! 

And what if I enwreathed my own ! 

'T were no offence to reason ; 70 

The sober hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone. 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 

A ray of fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 

Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 

Accordant to the measure. 80 



236 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

The vapors linger round the Heights, 
They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine, — 
Sad thought, which I would banish, 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
Will dwell with me, — to heighten joy, 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 



TO 



ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN. 

1816. — 1820. 

Inmate of a mountain dwelling, 
Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
From the watch-towers of Helvellyn ; 
Awed, delighted, and amazed ! 

Potent was the spell that bound thee. 
Not unwilling to obey ; 
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee, 
Stilled the pantings of dismay. 

Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows ; 
What a vast abyss is there ! 
Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows. 
And the glistenings — heavenly fair ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 237 

And a record of commotion 
Which a thousand ridges yield : 
Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
Gleaming like a silver shield ! 



Maiden ! now take flight ; — inherit 

Alps or Andes, — they are thine ! 

With the morning's roseate Spirit, 

Sweep their length of snowy hne ; 20 

Or survey their bright dominions 
In the gorgeous colors drest 
Flung from off the purple pinions, 
Evening spreads throughout the west ! 

Thine are all the coral fountains 
Warbling in each sparry vault 
Of the untrodden lunar mountains ; 
Listen to their songs ! — or halt, 

To Niphates' top invited, 

Whither spiteful Satan steered ; 7P 

Or descend where the ark alighted, 

When the green earth re-appeared ; 

For the power of hills is on thee, 
As was witnessed through thine eye 
Then, when old Helvellyn won thee, 
To confess their majesty 1 



238 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

ODE TO LYCORIS. 

1817. — 1820. 

I. 

An age hath been when Earth was proud 

Of lustre too intense 

To be sustained ; and Mortals bowed 

The front in self-defence. 

Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, 

Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed 

While on the wing the Urchin played, 

Could fearlessly approach the shade ? 

— Enough for one soft vernal day, 

If I, a bard of ebbing time, 10 

And nurtured in a fickle clime 

May haunt this horned bay ; 

Whose amorous water multiplies 

The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes ; 

And smooths her liquid breast — to show 

These swan-like specks of mountain snow, 

White as the pair that slid along the plains 

Of heaven, when Venus held the reins ! 

11. 

In youth we love the darksome lawn 

Brushed by the owlet's wing ; - 20 

Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, 

And Autumn to the Spring. 

Sad fancies do we then affect. 

In luxury of disrespect 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 239 

To our own prodigal excess 

Of too familiar happiness. 

Lycoris (if such name befit 

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign !) 

When Nature marks the year's decline, 

Be ours to welcome it ; 3° 

Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 

Before the path of milder suns ; 

Pleased while the sylvan world displays 

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze ; 

Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell 

Of the resplendent miracle. 

III. 

But something whispers to my heart 

That, as we downward tend, 

Lycoris ! life requires an art 

To which our souls must bend ; 40 

A skill — to balance and supply ; 

And, ere the flowing fount be dry. 

As soon it must, a sense to sip, 

Or drink, with no fastidious lip. 

Then welcome, above all, the Guest 

Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, 

Seem to recall the Deity 

Of youth into the breast : 

May pensive Autumn ne'er present 

A claim to her disparagement ! ' 50 

While blossoms and the budding spray 

Inspire us in our own decay ; 

Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, 

Be hopeful Spring the favorite of the Soul ! 



240 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 
1817. — 1820. 



WrrHiN the mind strong fancies work, 

A deep delight the bosom thrills, 

Oft as I pass along the fork 

Of these fraternal hills : 

Where, save the rugged road, we find 

No appanage of human kind. 

Nor hint of man : if stone or rock 

Seem not his handy-work to mock 

By something cognizably shaped : 

Mockery, — or model roughly hewn, 10 

And left as if by earthquake strewn, 

Or from the Flood escaped : 

Altars for Druid service fit ; 

(But where no fire was ever lit, 

Unless the glow-worm to the skies 

Thence offer nightly sacrifice) 

Wrinkled Egyptian monument ; 

Green moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; 

Tents of a camp that never shall be razed — 

On which four thousand years have gazed ! 20 

II. 
Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes ! 
Ye snow-white lambs that trip 
Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 241 

Of restless ownership ! 

Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 

To feed the insatiate Prodigal ! 

Lawns, houses, chattels, groves and fields, 

All that the fertile valley shields ; 

Wages of folly — baits of crime, 

Of life's uneasy game the stake, 3° 

Playthings that keep the eyes awake 

Of drowsy, dotard Time ; — 

O care ! O guilt ! — O vales and plains. 

Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains, 

A Genius dwells, that can subdue 

At once all memory of You, — 

Most potent when mists veil the sky, 

Mists that distort and magnify ; 

While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze. 

Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 40 

III. 

List to those shriller notes ! — that march 
Perchance was on the blast. 
When, through this Height's inverted arch, 
Rome's earhest legion passed ! 
— They saw, adventurously impelled, 
And older eyes than theirs beheld. 
This block — and yon, whose church-like frame 
Gives to this savage Pass its name. 
Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide 
Thy daring in a vapory bourn, 50 

Not seldom may the hour return 
When thou shalt be my guide : 
16 



242 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And I (as all men may find cause, 

When life is at a weary pause, 

And they have panted up the hill 

Of duty with reluctant will) 

Be thankful, even though tired and faint, 

For the rich bounties of constraint ; 

Whence oft invigorating transports flow 

That choice lacked courage to bestow ! 60 

IV. 

My soul was grateful for delight 

That wore a threatening brow ; 

A veil is lifted — can she slight 

The scene that opens now? 

Though habitation none appear, 

The greenness tells, man must be there ; 

The shelter — that the perspective 

Is of the clime in which we live ; 

Where Toil pursues his daily round ; 

Where Pity sheds sweet tears — and Love, 70 

In woodbine bower or birchen grove, 

Inflicts his tender wound. 

— Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 

How beautiful the world below ; 

Nor can he guess how lightly leaps 

The brook adown the rocky steeps. 

Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! 

Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 

Carols like a shepherd-boy ; 

And who is she ? — Can that be Joy ! 80 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 243 

Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 

Smoothly skims the meadows wide ; 

While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, 

To hill and vale proclaims aloud, 

" Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, 

Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion fair ! " 



SEQUEL TO "THE BEGGARS." 

COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. 
1817. — 1827. 

Where are they now, those wanton Boys ? 

For whose free range the daedal earth 

Was filled with animated toys. 

And implements of frolic mirth ; 

With tools for ready wit to guide ; 

And ornaments of seemlier pride. 

More fresh, more bright, than princes wear ; 

For what one moment flung aside, 

Another could repair : 

What good or evil have they seen 

Since I their pastime witnessed here. 

Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer? 

I ask — but all is dark between ! 

They met me in a genial hour. 
When universal nature breathed 



244 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

As with the breath of one sweet flower — 

A time to overrule the power 

Of discontent, and check the birth 

Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, 

The most famihar bane of hfe 20 

Since parting Innocence bequeathed 

Mortahty to Earth ! 

Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, 

Sailed through the sky — the brooks ran clear ; 

The lambs from rock to rock were bounding ; 

With songs the budded groves resounding ; 

And to my heart are still endeared 

The thoughts with which it then was cheered ; 

The faith which saw that gladsome pair 

Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 30 

Or, if such faith must needs deceive — 

Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, 

Associates in that eager chase ; 

Ye, who within the blameless mind 

Your favorite seat of empire find — 

Kind Spirits ! may we not believe 

That they, so happy and so fair 

Through your sweet influence, and the care 

Of pitying Heaven, at least were free 

From touch of deadly injury ? 40 

Destined, whate'er their earthly doom. 

For mercy and immortal bloom ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 245 



COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAOR- 
DINARY SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY. 

1818. — 1820. 

I. 

Had this effulgence disappeared 

With flying haste, I might have sent, 

Among the speechless clouds, a look 

Of blank astonishment ; 

But 't is endued with power to stay, 

And sanctify one closing day, 

That frail Mortality may see — 

What is ? — ah no, but what ca7t be ! 

Time was when field and watery cove 

With modulated echoes rang, ic 

While choirs of fervent Angels sang 

Their vespers in the grove ; 

Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height. 

Warbled, for heaven above and earth below. 

Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite, 

Methinks, if audibly repeated now 

From hill or valley, could not move 

Sublimer transport, purer love, 

Than doth this silent specta.cle, — the gleam — 

The shadow, and the peace supreme ! -o 



No sound is uttered, — but a deep 
And solemn harmony pervades 



246 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

The hollow vale from steep to steep, 

And penetrates the glades. 

Far-distant images draw nigh, 

Called forth by wondrous potency 

Of beamy radiance, that imbues 

Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues ! 

In vision exquisitely clear, 

Herds range along the mountain-side ; 30 

And glistening antlers are descried ; 

And gilded flocks appear. 

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 

But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, 

Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 

That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 

— From worlds not quickened by the sun 
A portion of the gift is won ; 

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread 

On ground which British shepherds tread ! 40 

IIL 

And, if there be whom broken ties 
Afflict, or injuries assail. 
Yon hazy ridges to their eyes 
Present a glorious scale, 
Climbing suffused with sunny air, 
To stop — no record hath told where ! 
And tempting Fancy to ascend. 
And with immortal Spirits blend ! 

— Wings at my shoulders seem to play ; 

• But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 5° 

On those bright steps that heavenward raise 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 247 

Their practicable way. 

Come forth, ye drooping oM men, look abroad. 

And see to what fair countries ye are bound ! 

And if some traveller, weary of his road, 

Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, 

Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; 

And wake him with such gentle heed 

As may attune his soul to meet the dower 

Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 60 

IV. 

Such hues from their celestial Urn 

Were wont to stream before mine eye, 

Where'er it wandered in the morn 

Of bhssful infancy. 

This glimpse of glory, why renewed ? 

Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 

For if a vestige of those gleams 

Survived, 't was only in my dreams. 

Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve 

No less than Nature's threatening voice, 70 

If aught unworthy be my choice. 

From Thee if I would swerve ; 

Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light 

Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ; 

Which, at this moment, on my waking sight 

Appears to shine, by miracle restored ; 

My soul, though yet confined to earth. 

Rejoices in a second birth ! 

— 'T is past, the visionary splendor fades ; 

And night approaches with her shades. . 80 



248 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE. 

1818. — 1820. 

Troubled long with warring notions, 
Long impatient of thy rod, 
I resign my soul's emotions 
Unto Thee, mysterious God ! 

What avails the kindly shelter 
Yielded by this craggy rent, 
If my spirit toss and welter 
On the waves of discontent ? 



Parching Summer hath no warrant 
To consume this crystal Well ; 
Rains, that make each rill a torrent. 
Neither sully it nor swell. 

Thus, dishonoring not her station. 
Would my Life present to Thee, 
Gracious God, the pure oblation 
Of divine tranquillity ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 249 

SEPTEMBER, 18 19. 

1819. — 1820. 

Departing summer hath assumed 
An aspect tenderly illumed, 
The gentlest look of spring ; 
That calls from yonder leafy shade 
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
A timely carolling. 

No faint and hesitating trill — 

Such tribute as to winter chill 

The lonely redbreast pays ! 

Clear, loud, and lively is the din, 10 

From social warblers gathering in 

Their harvest of sweet lays. 

Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere. 
And yellow on the bough : — 
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! 
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
Around a younger brow ! 

Yet will I temperately rejoice ; 

Wide is the range, and free the choice 20 

Of undiscordant themes ; 

Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 



2 so SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 

Not less than vernal ecstasies. 
And passion's feverish dreams. 

For deathless powers to verse belong, 

And they like Demi-gods are strong 

On whom the Muses smile ; 

But some their function have disclaimed, 

Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 

To enervate and defile. 30 

Not such the initiatory strains 

Committed to the silent plains 

In Britain's earliest dawn : ^ 

Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale. 

While all-too-daringly the veil 

Of nature was withdrawn ! 

Nor such the spirit-stirring note 

When the live chords Alcaeus smote. 

Inflamed by sense of wrong ; 

Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 40 

Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 

Of fierce vindictive song. 

And not unhallowed was the page 
By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
The pangs of vain pursuit ; 
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
With finest touch of passion swayed 
Her own ^olian lute. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 251 

O ye, who patiently explore 

The wreck of Herculanean lore, 50 

What rapture ! could ye seize 

Some Theban fragment, or unroll 

One precious, tender-hearted scroll 

Of pure Simonides. 

That were, indeed, a genuine birth 

Of poesy ; a bursting forth 

Of genius from the dust : 

What Horace gloried to behold, 

What Maro loved, shall we enfold ? 

Can haughty Time be just ! 60 



THE RIVER DUDDON. 

TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. (WITH THE SONNETS TO 
THE RIYER DUDDON.) 

1820. — 1820. 

The minstrels played their Christmas tune 
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves ; 
While, smitten by a lofty moon. 
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 
That overpowered their natural green. 

Through hill and valley every breeze 

Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 

Keen was the air, but could not freeze, 

Nor check, the music of the strings ; ic 



252 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

So stout and hardy were the band 

That scraped the chords with -strenuous hand 

And who but hstened ? — till was paid 
Respect to every Inmate's claim : 
The greeting given, the music played, 
In honor of each household name, 
Duly pronounced with lusty call. 
And '' Merry Christmas " wished to all ! 

O Brother ! I revere the choice 
That took thee from thy native hills ; 
And it is given thee to rejoice : 
Though public care full often tills 
(Heaven only witness of the toil) 
A barren and ungrateful soil. 



Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 

Hadst heard this never-failing rite ; 

And seen on other faces shine 

A true revival of the light 

Which Nature and these rustic Powers, 

In simple childhood, spread through ours ! 

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait 
On these expected annual rounds ; 
Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
Call forth the unelaborate sounds, 
Or they are offered at the door 
That guards the lowliest of the poor. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 253 

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 

Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, 

To hear — and sink again to sleep ! 

Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 4^ 

By blazing fire, the still suspense 

Of self-complacent innocence ; 

The mutual nod, — the grave disguise 

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ; 

And some unbidden tears that rise 

For names once heard, and heard no more ; 

Tears brightened by the serenade 

For infant in the cradle laid. 

Ah ! not for emerald fields alone, 

With ambient streams more pure and bright 5° 

Than fabled Cytherea's zone 

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, 

Is to my heart of hearts endeared 

The ground where we were born and reared ! 

Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence, 

Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 

Remnants of love whose modest sense 

Thus into narrow room withdraws ; 

Hail, Usages of pristine mould. 

And ye that guard them. Mountains old ! 60 

Bear with me. Brother ! quench the thought 
That slights this passion, or condemns ; 
If thee fond Fancy ever brought 
From the proud margin of the Thames, 



254 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

And Lambeth's venerable towers, 

To humbler streams, and greener bowers. 

Yes, they can make, who fail to find, 

Short leisure even in busiest days ; 

Moments, to cast a look behind. 

And profit by those kindly rays 70 

That through the clouds do sometimes steal, 

And all the far-oif past reveal. 

Hence, while the imperial City's din 
Beats fi-equent on thy satiate ear, 
A pleased attention I may win 
To agitations less severe. 
That neither overwhelm nor cloy, 
But fill the hollow vale with joy ! 



MEMORY. 

1823. —1827. 

A PEN — to register ; a key — 
That winds through secret wards ; 
Are well assigned to Memory 
By allegoric Bards. 

As aptly, also, might be given 

A Pencil to her hand ; 

That, softening objects, sometimes even 

Outstrips the heart's demand ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 25; 

That smooths foregone distress, the lines 

Of Ungering care subdues, ^ 

Long-vanished happiness refines, 

And clothes in brighter hues ; 

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
Those Spectres to dilate 
That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
Within her lonely seat. 

O that our lives, which flee so fast, 

In purity were such 

That not an image of the past 

Should fear that pencil's touch ! 2 

Retirement then might hourly look 
Upon a soothing scene. 
Age steal to his allotted nook 
Contented and serene ; ^ 

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
In frosty moonlight glistening ; 
Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
Along a channel smooth and deep, 
To their own far-off murmurs listening. 



256 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



TO THE LADY FLEMING, 

ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE ERECTION 
OF RYDAL CHAPEL, WESTMORELAND. 

1823.— 1827. 



Blest is this Isle, — our native Land ; 

Where battlement and moated gate 

Are objects only for the hand 

Of hoary Time to decorate ; 

Where shady hamlet, town that breathes 

Its busy smoke in social wreaths. 

No rampart's stern defence require, 

Naught but the heaven-directed spire, 

And steeple tower (with pealing bells 

Far heard) — our only citadels. 10 

II. 

O Lady ! from a noble line 

Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore 

The spear, yet gave to works divine 

A bounteous help in days of yore 

(As records mouldering in the Dell 

Of Nightshade haply yet may tell) ; 

Thee kindred aspirations moved 

To build, within a vale beloved. 

For Him upon whose high behests 

All peace depends, all safety rests. 20 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 257 

III. 

How fondly will the woods embrace 

This daughter of thy pious care, 

Lifting her front with modest grace 

To make a fair recess more fair ; 

And to exalt the passing hour, 

Or soothe it with a healing power 

Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled 

Before this rugged soil was tilled, 

Or human habitation rose 

To interrupt the deep repose ! 3° 

IV. 

Well may the villagers rejoice ! 

Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways, 

Will be a hindrance to the voice 

That would unite in prayer and praise ; 

More duly shall wild wandering Youth 

Receive the curb of sacred truth, 

Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear 

The Promise, with uplifted ear ; 

And all shall welcome the new ray 

Imparted to their Sabbath-day. 40 

V. 

Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced, 
His fancy cheated — that can see 
A shade upon the future cast. 
Of time's pathetic sanctity ; 
Can hear the monitory clock 
Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock 
17 



2S8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

At evening, when the ground beneath 

Is ruffled o'er with cells of death j 

Where happy generations lie, 

Here tutored for eternity. 50 

VI. 

Lives there a man whose sole delights 

Are trivial pomp and city noise, 

Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 

What every natural heart enjoys? 

Who never caught a noon-tide dream 

From murmur of a running stream ; 

Could strip, for aught the prospect yields 

To him, their verdure from the fields ; 

And take the radiance from the clouds 

In which the sun his setting shrouds ? 60 

VII. 

A soul so pitiably forlorn, 

If such do on this earth abide, 

May season apathy with scorn, 

May turn indifference to pride ; 

And still be not unblest — compared 

With him who grovels, self-debarred 

From all that lies within the scope 

Of holy faith and Christian hope ; 

Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast 

False fires, that others may be lost. 70 

VIII. 

Alas ! that such perverted zeal 

Should spread on Britain's favored ground ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 259 

That public order, private weal, 

Should e'er have felt or feared a wound 

From champions of the desperate law 

Which from their own blind hearts they draw ; 

Who tempt their reason to deny 

God, whom their passions dare defy. 

And boast that they alone are free 

Who reach this dire extremity ! 80 

IX. 

But turn we from these " bold, bad '' men ; 

The way, mild Lady ! that hath led 

Down to their " dark opprobrious den," 

Is all too rough for Thee to tread. 

Softly as morning vapors glide 

Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, 

Should move the tenor of his song 

Who means to charity no wrong ; 

Whose offering gladly would accord 

With this day's work, in thought and word. 90 



Heaven prosper it ! may peace, and love. 

And hope, and consolation fall. 

Through its meek influence, from above, 

And penetrate the hearts of all ; 

All who, around the hallowed Fane, 

Shall sojourn in this fair domain ; 

Grateful to Thee, while service pure. 

And ancient ordinance, shall endure. 

For opportunity bestowed 

To kneel together, and adore their God ! 100 



26o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



"O DEARER FAR THAN LIGHT AND LIFE ARE 
DEAR." 

1824. — 1827. 

O DEARER far than light and life are dear, 
Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; 
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear 
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more ! 

Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control. 
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ; 
While all the future, for thy purer soul, 
With " sober certainties " of love is blest. 

That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear. 

Tells that these words thy humbleness offend ; 10 

Yet bear me up — else faltering in the rear 

Of a steep march : support me to the end. 

Peace settles where the intellect is meek, 

And Love is dutiful in thought and deed ; 

Through Thee communion with that Love I seek : 

The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the Creed. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 



WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF MACPHERSON'S 
OSSIAN. 

1824. — 1827. 

Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, 

Fragments of far-off melodies, 

With ear not coveting the whole, 

A part so charmed the pensive soul : 

While a dark storm before my sight 

Was yielding, on a mountain height 

Loose vapors have I watched, that won 

Prismatic colors from the sun ; 

Nor felt a wish that heaven would show 

The image of its perfect bow. 10 

What need, then, of these finished Strains ? 

Away with counterfeit Remains ! 

An abbey in its lone recess, 

A temple of the wilderness. 

Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling 

The majesty of honest dealing. 

Spirit of Ossian ! if imbound 

In language thou mayst yet be found, 

If aught (intrusted to the pen 

Or floating on the tongues of men, 20 

Albeit shattered and impaired) 

Subsist thy dignity to guard, 

In concert with memorial claim 

Of old gray stone, and high-born name 

That cleaves to rock or pillared cave 



262 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, 
Let Truth, stern arbitress of all, 
'Interpret that Original, 
And for presumptuous wrongs atone ; 
Authentic words be given, or none ! 30 

Time is not blind ! — yet He, who spares 

Pyramid pointing to the stars. 

Hath preyed with ruthless appetite 

On all that marked the primal flight 

Of the poetic ecstasy 

Into the land of mystery. 

No tongue is able to rehearse 

One measure, Orpheus ! of thy verse ; 

Musajus, stationed with his lyre 

Supreme among the Elysian quire, 40 

Is, for the dwellers upon earth. 

Mute as a lark ere morning's birth. 

Why grieve for these, though past away 

The music, and extinct the lay ? 

When thousands, by severer doom, 

Full early to the silent tomb 

Have sunk, at Nature's call ; or strayed 

From hope and promise, self-betrayed ; 

The garland withering on their brows, 

Stung with remorse for broken vows, 5° 

Frantic — else how might they rejoice ? 

And friendless, by their own sad choice ! 

Hail, Bards of mightier grasp ! 'on you 
I chiefly call, the chosen Few, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 263 

Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, 

Who faltered not, nor turned aside ; 

Whose lofty genius could survive 

Privation, under sorrow thrive ; 

In whom the fiery Muse revered 

The symbol of a snow-white beard, 60 

Bedewed with meditative tears 

Dropped from the lenient cloud of years. 

Brothers in soul! though distant times 
Produced you nursed in various climes, 
Ye, when the orb of life had waned, 
A plenitude of love retained : 
Hence, while in you each sad regret 
By corresponding hope was met. 
Ye lingered among human kind. 
Sweet voices for the passing wind ; 70 

Departing sunbeams, loath to stop. 
Though smiling on the last hill-top ! 
Such to the tender-hearted maid 
Even ere her joys begin to fade ; 
Such, haply, to the rugged chief 
By fortune crushed, or tamed by grief; 
Appears, on Morven's lonely shore. 
Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore, 
The Son of Fingal ; such was blind 
Maeonides of ampler mind ; 80 

Such Milton, to the fountain-head 
Of glory by Urania led ! 



264 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

TO A SKY-LARK. 

1825. — 1827. 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine : 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine : 

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 



TO MAY. 

1826-34. — 1835. 

Though many suns have risen and set 

Since thou, blithe May, wert born. 
And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget 

Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
There are who to a birthday strain 

Confine not harp and voice. 
But evermore throughout thy reign 

Are grateful and rejoice ! 

Delicious odors ! music sweet, 
Too sweet to pass away ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. ' 265 

Oh for a deathless song to meet 

The soul's desire — a lay- 
That, when a thousand years are told, 

Should praise thee, genial Power ! 
Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 

And winter's dreariest hour. 

Earth, sea, thy presence feel — nor less, 

If yon ethereal blue 
With its soft smile the truth express. 

The heavens have felt it too. 20 

The inmost heart of man if glad 

Partakes a livelier cheer ; 
And eyes that cannot but be sad 

Let fall a brightened tear. 

Since thy return, through days and weeks 

Of hope that grew by stealth. 
How many wan and faded cheeks 

Have kindled into health ! 
The Old, by thee revived, have said, 

" Another year is ours j " 3° 

And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, 

Have smiled upon thy flowers. 

Who tripping lisps a merry song 

Amid his playful peers ? 
The tender Infant who was long 

A prisoner of fond fears ; 
But now, when every sharp-edged blast 

Is quiet in its sheath. 
His Mother leaves him free to taste 

Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 40 



266 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Thy help is with the weed that creeps 

Along the humblest ground ; 
No cliff so bare but on its steeps 

Thy favors may be found ; 
But most on some peculiar nook 

That our own hands have drest, 
Thou and thy train are proud to look, 

And seem to love it best. 

And yet how pleased we wander forth 

When May is whispering, " Come ! 5° 

Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 

The happiest for your home ; 
Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread 

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 
Drops on the mouldering turret's head 

And on your turf-clad graves ! " 

Such greeting heard, away with sighs 

For lilies that must fade. 
Or * the rathe primrose as it dies 

Forsaken ' in the shade ! 60 

Vernal fruitions and desires 

Are linked in endless chase ; 
While, as one kindly growth retires, 

Another takes its place. 

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 

Mishap by worm and blight ; 
If expectations newly blown 

Have perished in thy sight ; 
If loves and joys, while up they sprung, 

Were caught as in a snare, — 70 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 267 

Such is the lot of all the young, 
However bright and fair. 

Lo ! Streams that April could not check 

Are patient of thy rule ; 
Gurgling in foamy water-break, 

Loitering in glassy pool : 
By thee, thee only, could be sent 

Such gentle mists as glide. 
Curling with unconfirmed intent, 

On that green mountain's side. 80 

How delicate the leafy veil 

Through which yon house of God 
Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale, 

By few but shepherds trod ! 
And lowly huts, near beaten ways. 

No sooner stand attired 
In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 

Peep forth, and are admired. 

Season of fancy and of hope, 

Permit not for one hour go 

A blossom from thy crown to drop. 

Nor add to it a flower ! 
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 

Of self-restraining art, 
This modest charm of not too much. 

Part seen, imagined part ! 



268 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 



THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. 

1826. — 1827. 

Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds 

O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds ; 

And temples, doomed to milder change, unfold 

A new magnificence that vies with old ; 

Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood 

A votive Column, spared by fire and flood : — 

And, though the passions of man's fretful race 

Have never ceased to eddy round its base, 

Not injured more by touch of meddling hands 

Than a lone obelisk 'mid Nubian sands, 10 

Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save 

From death the memory of the good and brave. 

Historic figures round the shaft embost 

Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost : 

Still as he turns, the charmed spectator sees 

Group winding after group with dream-like ease, 

Triumphs in sunbright gratitude displayed. 

Or softly stealing into modest shade. 

— So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine 

Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring vine ; 20 

The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and breathes' 

Wide-spreading odors from her flowery wreaths. 

Borne by the Muse from rills in shepherds' ears, 
Murmuring but one smooth story for all years, 
I gladly commune with the mind and heart 
Of him who thus survives by classic art, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 269 

His actions witness, venerate his mien, 

And study Trajan as by Pliny seen ; • 

Behold how fought the Chief whose conquering sword 

Stretched far as earth might own a single lord \ 30 

In the delight of moral prudence schooled. 

How feelingly at home the Sovereign ruled ; 

Best of the good — in Pagan faith allied 

To more than Man, by virtue deified. 



Memorial Pillar ! 'mid the wrecks of Time 
Preserve thy charge with confidence sublime, — 
The exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, 
Whence half the breathing world received its doom ; 
Things that recoil from language ; that, if shown 
By apter pencil, from the light had flown. 40 

A Pontiff, Trajan here the Gods implores, 
There greets an Embassy from Indian shores ; 
Lo ! he harangues his cohorts — there the storm 
Of battle meets him in authentic form ! 
Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish horse 
Sweep to the charge ; more high, the Dacian force 
To hoof and finger mailed : yet, high or low, 
None bleed, and none lie prostrate but the foe. 
In^very Roman, through all turns of fate. 
Is Roman dignity inviolate ; 50 

Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides. 
Supports, adorns, and over all presides ; 
Distinguished only by inherent state 
From honored Instruments that round him wait ; 
Rise as he may, his grandeur scorns the test 
Of outward symbol, nor will deign to rest 



270 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

On aught by which another is deprest. 

— Alas ! that One thus disciplined could toil 

To enslave whole nations on their native soil ; 

So emulous of Macedonian fame, 60 

That, when his age was measured with his aim. 

He drooped, 'mid else unclouded victories, 

And turned his eagles back with deep-drawn sighs ; 

O weakness of the Great ! O folly of the Wise ! 

Where now the haughty Empire that was spread 
With such fond hope ? Her very speech is dead ; 
Yet glorious Art the power of Time defies, 
And Trajan still, through various enterprise. 
Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward the skies : 
Still are we present with the imperial Chief, 70 

Nor cease to gaze upon the bold Relief 
Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined, 
Becomes with all her years a vision of the Mind. 



THE WISHING-GATE. 

1828. — 1829. 

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old highway leading to 
Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, has been called tiie 
Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there 
have a favorable issue. 

Hope rules a land forever green : 

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen 

Are confident and gay ; 
Clouds at her bidding disappear ; 
Points she to aught? — the bliss draws near. 

And Fancy smooths the way. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 271 

Not such the land of Wislics — there 
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, 

And thouglits with things at strife ; 
Yet how forlorn, should ye depart, ^o 

Ye superstitions of the heart., 

How poor, were human life ! 

When magic lore abjured its might, 
Ye did not forfeit one dear right, 

One tender claim abate ; 
Witness this symbol of your sway, 
Surviving near the public way, 

The rustic Wishing-gate ! 

Inquire not if the faery race 

Shed kindly influence on the place, 20 

Ere northward they retired ; 
If here a warrior left a spell, 
Panting for glory as he fell ; 

Or here a saint expired. 

Enough that all around is fair, 
Composed with Nature's finest care, 

And in her fondest love — 
Peace to embosom and content — 
To overawe the turbulent. 

The selfish to reprove. 3° 

Yea ! even the Stranger from afar. 
Reclining on this moss-grown bar, 
Unknowing and unknown. 



272 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

The infection of the ground partakes, 
Longing for his Beloved — who makes 
All happiness her own. 

Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
The mystic stirrings that are here, 

The ancient faith disclaim ? 
The local Genius ne'er befriends 40 

Desires whose course in folly ends, 

Whose just reward is shame. 

Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 

Here crave an easier lot ; 
If some have thirsted to renew 
A broken vow, or bind a true, 

With firmer, holier knot. 

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 

Upon the irrevocable past, 5° 

Some Penitent sincere 
May for a worthier future sigh, 
While trickles from his downcast eye 

No unavailing tear. 

The Worldling, pining to be freed 
From turmoil, who would turn or speed 

The current of his fate. 
Might stop before this favored scene, 
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 

Upon the Wishing-gate. 60 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 273 

The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
Is man, though loath such help to seek, 

Yet, passing, here might pause, 
And thirst for insight to allay 
Misgiving, while the crimson day 

In quietness withdraws ; 

Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
To Time's first step across the bound 

Of midnight makes reply ; 
Time pressing on with starry crest, 70 

To filial sleep upon the breast 

Of dread eternity. 



THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. 

1828. —1842. 

'T IS gone, — with old belief and dream 
That round it clung, and tempting scheme 

Released from fear and doubt ; 
And the bright landscape too must lie, 
By this blank wall from every eye 

Relentlessly shut out. 

Bear witness, ye who seldom passed 
That opening — but a look ye cast 

Upon the lake below, 
What spirit-stirring power it gained 
From faith which here was entertained, 

Though reason might say no. 
18 



2 74 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs 
Of history, Glory claps her wings. 

Fame sheds the exulting tear ; 
Yet earth is wide, and many a nook 
Unheard of is, like this, a book 

For modest meanings dear. 

It was in sooth a happy thought 

That grafted, on so fair a spot, 20 

So confident a token 
Of coming good ; — the charm is fled \ 
Indulgent centuries spun a thread, 

Which one harsh day has broken. 

Alas for him who gave the word 1 
Could he no sympathy afford, 

Derived from earth or heaven, 
To hearts so oft by hope betrayed 
Their very wishes wanted aid 

Which here was freely given ? 30 

Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound, 
Will now so readily be found 

A balm of expectation ? 
Anxious for far-off children, where 
Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air 

Of home-felt consolation ? 

And not unfelt will prove the loss 
'Mid trivial care and petty cross 
And each day's shallow grief; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 275 

Though the most easily beguiled 40 

Were oft among the first that smiled 
At their own fond belief. 

If still the reckless change we mourn, 
A reconciling thought may turn 

To harm that might lurk here, 
Ere judgment prompted from within 
Fit aims, with courage to begin. 

And strength to persevere. 

Not Fortune's slave is Man : our state 

Enjoins, while firm resolves await ► 5° 

On wishes just and wise, 
That strenuous action follow both, 
And life be one perpetual growth 

Of heavenward enterprise. 

So taught, so trained, we boldly face 
All accidents of time and place ; 

Whatever props may fail, 
Trust in that sovereign law can spread 
New glory o'er the mountain's head, 

Fresh beauty through the vale. 60 

That truth informing mind and heart, 
The simplest cottager may part, 

Ungrieved, with charm and spell ; 
And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee 
The voice of grateful memory 

Shall bid a kind farewell ! 



276 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

"IN THESE FAIR VALES HATH MANY A TREE.'» 

1830. — 1835. 

In these fair vales hath many a Tree 

i\t Wordsworth's suit been spared ; 
And from the builder's hand this Stone, 
For some rude beauty of its own, 

Was rescued by the Bard : 
So let it rest ; and time will come 

When here the tender-hearted 
May heave a gentle sigh for him, 

As one of the departed. 



THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 

1831. — 1835. 

A Rock there is whose homely front 

The passing traveller slights ; 
Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, 

Like stars, at various heights : 
And one coy Primrose to that Rock 

The vernal breeze invites. 

What hideous warfare hath been waged, 

What kingdoms overthrown, 
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft 

And marked it for my own ; 
A lasting link in Nature's chain 

From highest heaven let down ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 277 

The flowers, still faithful to the stems , 

Their fellowship renew : 
The stems are faithful to the root^ 

That worketh out of view ; 
And to the rock the root adheres 

In every fibre true. 

Close clings to earth the living rock, 

Though threatening still to fall ; 20 

The earth is constant to her sphere ; 

And God upholds them all : 
So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads 

Her annual funeral. 

Here closed the meditative strain ; 

But air breathed soft that day. 
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered, 

The sunny vale looked gay. 
And to the Primrose of the Rock 

I gave this after-lay. 30 

I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers, 

Like Thee, in field and grove 
Revive unenvied ; — mightier far, 

Than tremblings that reprove 
Our vernal tendencies to hope, 

Is God's redeeming love ; 

That love which changed — for wan disease, 

For sorrow that had bent 
O'er hopeless dust, for withered age — 

Their moral element, 40 

And turned the thisdes of a curse 

To tvpes beneficent. 



278 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Sin-blighted though we are, we too. 

The reasoning Sons of Men, 
From one oblivious winter called 

Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
And in eternal summer lose 

Our threescore years and ten. 

To humbleness of heart descends 

This prescience from on high, 50 

The faith that elevates the just, 

Before and when they die ; 
And makes each soul a separate heaven, 

A court for Deity. 



YARROW REVISITED. 

1831.-1835. 

The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 

Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," 
Was but an Infant in the lap 

When first I looked on Yarrow ; 
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 

Long left without a warder, 
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 

Great Minstrel of the Border ! 

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 

Their dignity installing 
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 

Were on the bough, or falling ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 279 

But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — 

The forest to embolden ; 
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 

Transparence through the golden. 

For busy thoughts the stream flowed on 

In foamy agitation ; 
And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation : 20 

No public and no private care 

The free-born mind enthralling, 
We made a day of happy hours, 

Our happy days recalling. 

Brisk Youth appeared, the morn of youth, 

With freaks of graceful folly, — 
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 

Her Night not melancholy ; 
Past, present, future, all appeared 

In harmony united, 30 

Like guests that meet, and some from far, 

By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 

And down the meadow ranging. 
Did meet us with unaltered face, 

Though we were changed and changing ; 
If, then, some natural shadows spread 

Our inward prospect over, 
The soul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 40 



28o SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 

Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
And Care waylays their steps, — a Sprite 

Not easily eluded. 

For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change 

Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 50 

For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes \ 

And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 

May classic Fancy, linking 
With native Fancy her fresh aid, 

Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 

O ! while they minister to thee, 

Each vying with the other, 
May Health return to mellow Age 

With strength her venturous brother ; 60 

And Tiber, and each brook and rill 

Renowned in song and story. 
With unimagined beauty shine, 

Nor lose one ray of glory ! 

For Thou, upon a hundred streams. 

By tales of love and sorrow, 
Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 281 

And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 

Wherever they invite Thee, 70 

At parent Nature's grateful call, 
With gladness must requite Thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine, 

Such looks of love and honor 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 

When first I gazed upon her ; 
Beheld what I had feared to see. 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days, 

The holy and the tender. 80 

And what, for this frail world, were all 

That mortals do or suffer. 
Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial tribute offer? 
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelped by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us ? 

Nor deem that localized Romance 

Plays false with our affections ; 9° 

Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 

For fanciful dejections : 
Ah, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is — our changeful Life, 

With friends and kindred deaUng. 



282 SELECTIONS EROM WORDSIVORTH. 

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 

In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark entered ; loo 

And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
. By the " last Minstrel," (not the last !) 

Ere he his Tale recounted. 

Flow on forever. Yarrow Stream ! 

Fulfil thy pensive duty. 
Well pleased that future Bards should chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to the common sunshine, "o 

And dearer still, as now I feel. 

To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 



ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT 
FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. 

1831. — 1835. 
A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain. 
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : 
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 
Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 283 

Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue 'o 

Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, 
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 



DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 

" Not to the earth confined, 
Ascend to heaven." 

1832.-1835. 

Where will they stop, those breathing Powers, 

The Spirits of the new-born flowers ? 

They wander with the breeze, they wind 

Where'er the streams a passage find ; 

Up from their native ground they rise 

In mute aerial harmonies ; 

From humble violet — modest thyme — 

Exhaled, the essential odors cHmb, 

As if no space below the sky 

Their subtle flight could satisfy : 10 

Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride 

If like ambition be their guide. 

Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, 
The spirit-quickener of the flowers, 
That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
Of rapture from a thousand throats — 



284 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Here checked by too impetuous haste. 

While there the music runs to waste, 20 

With bounty more and more enlarged, 

Till the whole air is overcharged ; 

Give ear, O Man ! to their appeal 

And thirst for no inferior zeal, 

Thou, who canst think, as well as feel. 

Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire ! 
So pleads the town's cathedral quire. 
In strains that from their solemn height 
Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
While incense from the altar breathes 30 

Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths ; 
Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
Around angelic Forms, the still 
Creation of the painter's skill. 
That on the service wait concealed 
One moment, and the next revealed. 
— -Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, 
And for no transient ecstasies ! 
What else can mean the visual plea 40 

Of still or moving imagery, — 
The iterated summons loud, 
Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
Hurrying the busy streets along ? 

Alas ! the sanctities combined 
By art to unsensualize the mind 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 285 

Decay and languish ; or, as creeds 

And humors change, are spurned like weeds : 

The priests are from their altars thrust ; 5° 

Temples are levelled with the dust j 

And solemn rites and awful forms 

Founder amid fanatic storms. 

Yet evermore, through years renewed 

In undisturbed vicissitude 

Of seasons balancing their flight 

On the swift wings of day and night, 

Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 

Wide open for the scattered Poor. 

Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 60 

Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 

And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 

Is fragrant with a humbler vow ; 

Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 

Chime forth unwearied canticles, 

And vapors magnify and spread 

The glory of the sun's bright head, — 

Still constant in her worship, still 

Conforming to the eternal Will, 

Whether men sow or reap the fields, 70 

Divine monition Nature yields, 

That not by bread alone we live, 

Or what a hand of flesh can give ; 

That every day should leave some part 

Free for a Sabbath of the heart : 

So shall the seventh be truly blest, 

From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 



286 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

"IF THOU INDEED." 

? — 1832. 

If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, 

Then to the measure of that heaven-born light, 

Shine, Poet, in thy place, and be content. 

The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, 

And they that from the zenith dart their beams, 

(Visible though they be to half the earth. 

Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness). 

Are yet of no diviner origin, 

No purer essence, than the one that burns, 

Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge 10 

Of some dark mountain ; or than those which seem 

Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, 

Among the branches of the leafless trees. 

Then to the measure of the light vouchsafed, 

Shine, Poet, in thy place, and be content. 

"IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY AND PAIN." 

1833. -1835. 
If this great world of joy and pain 

Revolve in one sure track ; 
If freedom, set, will rise again. 

And virtue, flown, come back ; 
Woe to the purbHnd crew who fill 

The heart with each day's care ; 
Nor gain, from past or future, skill 

To bear, and to forbear ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 287 

"NOT IN THE LUCID INTERVALS OF LIFE." 

1834. — 1835. 

Not in the lucid intervals of life 

That come but as a curse to party strife ; 

Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh 

Of languor puts his rosy garland by ; 

Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave 

Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave — 

Is Nature felt, or can be ; nor do words, 

Which practised talent readily affords, 

Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords ; 

Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 10 

With genuine rapture and with fervent love 

The soul of Genius, if he dare to take 

Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake ; 

Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent 

Of all the truly great and all the innocent. 

But who is innocent ? By grace divine, 
Not otherwise, O Nature ! we are thine, 
Through good and evil thine, in just degree 
Of rational and manly sympathy. 

To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, 20 

And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing. 
Add every charm the Universe can show 
Through every change its aspects undergo — 
Care may be respited, but not repealed ; 
No perfect cure grows on that bounded field. 



288 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH, 

Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace, 

If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease, 

Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, 

Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance ; 

To the distempered Intellect refuse 30 

His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 



TO A CHILD. 

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. 
1834. -1835. 

Small service is true service while it lasts. 

Of humblest Friends, bright Creature ! scorn not one ; 

The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 

Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun. 



WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB. 

1835.-1835. 

To a good Man of most dear memory 

This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart 

From the great city where he first drew breath, 

Was reared and taught ; and humbly earned his bread. 

To the strict labors of the merchant's desk 

By duty chained. Not seldom did those tasks 

Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress, 

His spirit, but the recompense was high ; 

Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire ; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 289 

Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air ; ^o 

And when the precious hours of leisure came, 

Knowledge and wisdom, gained from converse sweet 

With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets 

With a keen eye, and overflowing heart : 

So genius triumphed over seeming wrong. 

And poured out truth in works by thoughtful love 

Inspired — works potent over smiles and tears. 

And as round mountain-tops the lightning plays, 

Thus innocently sported, breaking forth 

As from a cloud of some grave sympathy, 20 

Humor and wild instinctive wit, and all 

The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 

From the most gentle creature nursed in fields 

Had been derived the name he bore — a name, 

Wherever Christian altars have been raised. 

Hallowed to meekness and to innocence ; 

And if in him meekness at times gave way, 

Provoked out of herself by troubles strange, 

Many and strange, that hung about his life ; 

Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 3° 

A soul by resignation sanctified : 

And if too often, self-reproached, he felt 

That innocence belongs not to our kind, 

A power that never ceased to abide in him, 

Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 

That she can cover, left not his exposed 

To an unforgiving judgment from just Heaven. 

Oh, he was good, if e'er a good Man lived ! 



From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart 
Those simple lines flowed with an earnest wish, 



40 



290 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Though but a doubting hope, that they might serve 

Fitly to guard the precious dust of him 

Whose virtues called them forth. That aim is missed ; 

For much that truth most urgently required 

Had from a faltering pen been asked in vain : 

Yet, haply, on the printed page received, 

The imperfect record, there, may stand unblamed 

As long as verse of mine shall breathe the air 

Of memory, or see the light of love. 

Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my Friend, 50 

But more in show than truth ; and from the fields, 
And from the mountains, to thy rural grave 
Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er 
Its green untrodden turf, and blowing flowers ; 
And taking up a voice, shall speak (tho' still 
Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 
Which words less free presumed not even to touch) 
Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lamp 
From infancy, through manhood, to the last 
Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour, 60 

Burnt on with ever- strengthening light, enshrined 
Within thy bosom. 

"Wonderful" hath been 
The love established between man and man, 
" Passing the love of women ; " and between 
Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock joined 
Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of love 
Without whose blissful influence Paradise 
Had been no Paradise ; and earth were now 
A waste where creatures bearing human form, 
Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear, 70 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 291 

Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on ; 

And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve 

That he hath been an Elm without his Vine, 

And her bright dower of clustering charities, 

That, round his trunk and branches, might have clung 

Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, 

Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee 

Was given (say rather thou of later birth 

Wert given to her) a Sister — 't is a word 

Timidly uttered, for she lives, the meek, 

The self-restraining, and the ever-kind ; 

In whom thy reason and intelligent heart 

Found — for all interests, hopes, and tender cares, 

All softening, humanizing, hallowing powers. 

Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought — 

More than sufficient recompense ! 

Her love 

(What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here ?) 
Was as the love of mothers ; and when years, 

Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called 

The long protected to assume the part 9° 

Of a protector, the first filial tie 

Was undissolved ; and, in or out of sight. 

Remained imperishably interwoven 

With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting world, 

Did they together testify of time 

And season's difference — a double tree 

With two collateral stems sprung from one root ; 

Such were they — such through life they might have been 

In union, in partition only such ; 

Otherwise wrought the will of the Most High ; 10° 

Yet through all visitations and all trials, 



292 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Still they were faithful ; like two vessels launched 
From the same beach one ocean to explore 
With mutual help, and sailing — to their league 
True, as inexorable winds, or bars 
Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow. 

But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
With thine, O silent and invisible Friend ! 
To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, 
When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 
From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught 
That the remembrance of foregone distress, 
And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
Upon its mother) may be both alike 
Disarmed of power to unsetde present good 
So prized, and things inward and outward held 
In such an even balance, that the heart 
Acknowledges God's grace, his mercy feels, 
And in its depth of gratitude is still. 

O gift divine of quiet sequestration ! 
The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, 
And feeding daily on the hope of heaven, 
Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves 
To life-long singleness ; but happier far 
Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, 
A thousand times more beautiful appeared, 
Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie 
Is broken ; yet why grieve ? for Time but holds 
His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 
To the blest world where parting is unknown. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 293 



EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF 
JAMES HOGG. 

1835.-1836. 

When first, descending from the Moorlands, 

I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 

Along a bare and open valley, 

The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 

When last along its banks I wandered. 
Through groves that had begun to shed 
Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
My steps the Border-minstrel led. 

The Mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 

'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; i< 

And death upon the braes of Yarrow 

Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 

Nor has the rolling year twice measured. 
From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 

The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 

And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 

Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 2( 



294 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, 
Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
How fast has brother followed brother, 
From sunshine to the sunless land ! 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
** Who next will drop and disappear?" 

Our haughty life is crowned with darkness. 

Like London with its own black wreath, 3^ 

On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth-looking, 

I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed. 
Thou too art gone before ; but why. 
O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
Should frail survivors heave a sigh? 

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 

Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 

For Her who, ere her summer faded. 

Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 4° 

No more of old romantic sorrows. 

For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid ! 

With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 

And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 295 



SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL SO SENSITIVE.' 

1845. — 1845. 

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, 

Would that the little Flowers were born to live, 

Conscious of half the pleasure which they give ; 

That to this mountain-daisy's self were known 
The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown 
On the smooth surface of this naked stone ! 

And what if hence a bold desire should mount 
High as the Sun, that he could take account 
Of all the issues from his glorious fount ! 

So might he ken how by his sovereign aid i" 

These delicate companionships are made ; 
And how he rules the pomp of light and shade ; 

And were the Sister-power that shines by night 

So privileged, what a countenance of delight 

Would through the clouds break forth on human sight ! 

Fond fancies ! wheresoe'er shall turn thine eye 
On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky, 
Converse with Nature in pure sympathy ; 

All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled. 

Be Thou to love and praise alike impelled, 2( 

Whatever boon is granted or withheld. 



296 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 
1797. — 1800. 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years 
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 

'T is a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 
And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's. 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise. 
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. 

In the edition of 1800 the following stanza is added to the poem : 

Poor Outcast ! return, to receive thee once more 
The house of thy Father will open its door. 
And then once again, in thy plain russet gown, 
May 'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. 



SONNETS. 



^ 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 299 



1802. — 1807. 
I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain 
And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest mood 
Of that Man's mind — what can it be? what food 
Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could he gain ? 
'T is not in battles that from youth we train 
The Governor who must be wise and good, 
And temper with the sternness of the brain 
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. 
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees : 
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk 
Of the mind's business ; these are the degrees 
By which true Sway doth mount ; this is the stalk 
True Power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. 

II. — COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 
1802.— 1807. 
Earth has not anything to show more fair : 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendor, valley, .rock, or hill. 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep. 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



300 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

III. — BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS. 
1802. — 1807. 
Fair Star of evening, Splendor of the west, 
Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's brink 
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest, 
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest, 
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and should'st win! 
Bright Star, with laughter on her banners, drest 
In thy fresh beauty ! There ! that dusky spot 
Beneath thee, that is England ; there she lies. 
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, 
One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear 
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, 
Among men who do not love her, linger here. 

IV.— CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. 
1802. — 1807. 
Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind. 
Or what is it that ye go forth to see ? 
Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree, 
Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind, 
Post forward all, like creatures of one kind. 
With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend th.e knee 
In France, before the new-born Majesty. 
'T is ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, 
A seemly reverence may be paid to power ; 
But that 's a loyal virtue, never sown 
In haste, nor springing with a transient shower : 
When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown. 
What hardship had it been to wait an hour? 
Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 301 

v. — COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS. 
1802. — 1807. 
Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I 
Went pacing, side by side, this public Way 
Streamed with the pomp of a too credulous day, 
When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty : 
A homeless sound of joy was in the sky : 
From hour to hour the antiquated Earth 
Beat like the heart of Man : songs, garlands, mirth, 
Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh ! 
And now, sole register that these things were, 
Two solitary greetings have I heard, 
^^ Good-mo7'row, Citizen f' a hollow word. 
As if a dead man spake it ! Yet despair 
Touches me not, though pensive as a bird 
Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare. 

VL — CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802. 
1802. — 1807. 

Festivals have I seen that were not names : 
This is young Bonaparte's natal day, 
And his is henceforth an established sway — 
Consul for life. With worship France proclaims 
Her approbation, and with pomps and games. 
Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay ! 
Calais is not : and I have bent my way 
To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames 
His business as he hkes. Far other show 
My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time : 
The senselessness of Joy was then sublime ! 
Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, 
Consul, or King, can sound himself to know 
The destiny of Man, and live in hope. 



302 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

VIL— COMPOSED ON THE BEACH NEAR CALAIS. 
1802.— 1807. 
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
The lioly time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea : 
Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
And doth with his eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here, 
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not. 

VHL — EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC. 
1802.— 1807. 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee, 

And was the safeguard of the west : the worth 

Of Venice did not fall below her birth, — 

Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 

She was a maiden City, bright and free ; 

No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 

And when she took unto herself a Mate, 

She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 

And what if she had seen those glories fade, 

Those titles vanish, and that strength decay : 

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 

When her long life hath reached its final day : 

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 

Of that which once was great is passed away. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 303 

IX. — TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 

1802. — 1807. 
TousSAiNT, the most unhappy man of men ! 
Whether the whistHng Rustic tend his plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; 

miserable Chieftain ! where and when 

Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not ; do thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, 
Live, and take, comfort. Thou hast left behind 
Powers that will work for thee, — air, earth, and skits ; 
There 's not a breathing of the common wind 
That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 

X. — SEPTEMBER, 1802, NEAR DOVER. 

1802. — 1807. 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 

And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear. 

The coast of France — the coast of France how near ! 

Drawn almost into frightful neighborhood. 

1 shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, — 
A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
Even so doth God protect us if we be 
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll. 
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity ; 
Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 
Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul 
Only, the Nations shall be great and free. 



304 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XI. — WRITTEN IN LONDON, 1802. 
1802. — 1807. 
O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
To think that now our hfe is only drest 
For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 
Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook 
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : 
The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
No grandeur now in nature or in book 
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
This is idolatry : and these we adore : 
Plain living and high thinking are no more : 
The homely beauty of the good old cause 
Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
And pure religion breathing household laws. 

XII.— LONDON, 1802. 
1802. — 1807. 
Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour : 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 305 

XIII. 

1802. — 1807. 

Great men have been among us ; hands that penned 

And tongues that uttered wisdom — better none : 

The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 

Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. 

These moralists could act and comprehend : 

They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 

Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 

In splendor : what strength was that would not bend 

But in magnanimous meekness. France, 't is strange, 

Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. 

Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 

No single volume paramount, no code. 

No master spirit, no determined road ; 

But equally a want of books and men ! 

XIV. 

1802. — 1807. 

It is not to be thought of that the Flood 

Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 

Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 

Hath flowed, " with pomp of waters unwithstood," 

Roused though it be full often to a mood 

Which spurns the check of salutary bands. 

That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands 

Should perish ; and to evil and to good 

Be lost forever. In our halls is hung 

Armory of the invincible Knights of old : 

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 

That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 

Which Milton held. — In everything we are sprung 

Of Earth's first blood, have tides manifold. 



3o6 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XV. 
1802. — 1807. 
When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
Great Nations, how ennobhng thoughts depart 
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
I had, my Country 1 — am I to be blamed ? 
Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, 
Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; 
And I by my affection was beguiled : 
What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
Among the many movements of his mind, 
Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 

XVI. — COMPOSED AT CASTLE. 

1803. — 1807. 
Degenerate Douglas ! oh, the unworthy Lord 
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please, 
And love of havoc (for with such disease 
Fame taxes him), that he could send forth word 
To level with the dust a noble horde, 
A brotherhood of venerable Trees, 
Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these, 
Beggared and outraged ! — Many hearts deplored 
The fate of those old Trees ; and oft with pain 
The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze 
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed : 
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays. 
And the pure mountains, and the gende Tweed, 
And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 307 

XVII. 

1803. — 1807. 
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 
Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall, 
Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall : 
*T is his who walks about in the open air. 
One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear 
Their fetters in their souls. For who could be. 
Who, even the best, in such condition, free 
From self-reproach, reproach that he must share 
With Human nature ? Never be it ours 
To see the sun how brightly it will shine. 
And know that noble feelings, manly powers, 
Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine ; 
And earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers 
Fade, and participate in man's decline. 

XVIII. — OCTOBER, 1803. 
1803. — 1807. 
These times strike monied worldlings with dismay : 
Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air 
With words of apprehension and despair : 
While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, 
Men unto whom sufficient for the day 
And minds not stinted or untilled are given, 
Sound, healthy, children of the God of heaven, 
Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. 
What do we gather hence but firmer faith 
That every gift of noble origin 
Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath ; 
That virtue and the faculties within 
Are vital, — and that riches are akin 
To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death? 



3o8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XIX. 

1803. — 1807. 
England ! the time is come when thou should'st wean 
Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 
The truth should now be better understood ; 
Old things have been unsettled ; we have seen 
Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been 
But for thy trespasses ; and, at this day, 
If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 
Aught good were destined, thou would'st step between. 
England ! all nations in this charge agree : 
But worse, more ignorant in love and hate, 
Far — far more abject, is thine Enemy : 
Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight 
Of thy offences be a heavy weight : 
Oh, grief that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee ! 

XX. — TO THE MEN OF KENT. 

1803. — 1807. 
Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 
Ye children of a Soil that doth advance 
Her haughty brow against the coast of France, 
Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 
To France be words of invitation sent ! 
They from their fields can see the countenance 
Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance, 
And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. 
Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore. 
Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath ; 
Confirmed the charters that were yours before ; — 
No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; 
We all are with you now from shore to shore : — 
Ye men of Kent, 't is victory or death ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 3^9 

XXL — IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY. 

1803. — 1807. 
Six thousand veterans practised in war's game, 
Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed 
Against an equal host that wore the plaid, 
Shepherds and herdsmen. — Like a whirlwind came 
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame ; 
And Garry, thundering down his mountain-road. 
Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load 
Of the dead bodies. — 'T was a day of shame 
For them whom precept and the pedantry 
Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. 
Oh for a single hour of that Dundee 
Who on that day the word of onset gave ! 
Like conquest would the Men of England see ; 
And her Foes find a like inglorious grave. 

xxn. 

1806.— 1807. 
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
And students with their pensive citadels ; 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom, 
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
In truth the prison, unto which we doom 
Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me, 
In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound 
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, 
Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 



3IO SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XXIIL — BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE LAKE. 

1806. —1819. 
Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 
Through the gray west ; and lo ! these waters, steeled 
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
A vivid repetition of the stars ; 
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 
At happy distance from earth's groaning field. 
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. 
Is it a mirror? — or the nether Sphere 
Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds 
Her own calm fires ? But list ! a voice is near ; 
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds, 
" Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here ! " 

XXIV. 

1806. — 1807. 
The world is too much with us : late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howlmg at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; — 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 311 

XXV. — PERSONAL TALK. 
1806. — 1807. 
I AM not One who much or oft delight 
To season my fireside with personal talk, — 
Of friends, who live within an easy walk, 
Or neighbors, daily, weekly, in my sight : 
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, 
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, — 
These all wear out of me, like Forms with chalk 
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. 
Better than such discourse doth silence long, 
Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, 
And hsten to the flapping of the flame, 
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 

XXVI. — CONTINUED. 

1806. — 1807. 

*' Yet life," you say, " is life ; we have seen and see, 

And with a living pleasure we describe ; 

And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 

The languid mind into activity. 

Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee 

Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." 

Even be it so : yet still among your tribe, 

Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me ! 

Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies 

More justly balanced ; partly at their feet, 

And part far from them : — Sweetest melodies 

Are those that are by distance made more sweet ; 

Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes, 

He is a Slave ; the meanest we can meet ! 



312 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XXVII. — CONTINUED. 

1806. — 1807. 
Wings have we, — and as far as we can go 
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, 
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, 
Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, 
Matter wherein right voluble I am. 
To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 
And heavenly Una, with her milk-white Lamb. 

XXVIIL —CONCLUDED. 
1806. — 1807. 
Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
From evil-speaking ; rancor, never sought. 
Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought : 
And thus from day to day my little boat 
Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. 
Blessings be with them, and eternal praise. 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
The Poets who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 
Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs, 
Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 313 

XXIX. — TO SLEEP. 
1806. — 1807. 

GENTLE SLEEP ! do they belong to thee, 
These twinkUngs of oblivion ? Thou dost love 
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, 

A captive never wishing to be free. 

This tiresome night, O Sleep ! thou art to me 

A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove 

Upon a fretful rivulet, now above, 

Now on the water vexed with mockery. 

1 have no pain that calls for patience, no ; 
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child : 
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, 
Yet ever willing to be reconciled : 

gentle Creature ! do not use me so, 
But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 

XXX. — CONTINUED. 
1806. — 1807. 
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; — 

1 have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, 
And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day. 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 



314 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XXXI. — CONCLUDED. 

1806. — 1807. 
Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep ! 
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names ; 
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames. 
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep ! 
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep 
In rich reward all suffering ; Balm that tames 
All anguish ; Saint that evil thoughts and aims 
Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, 
I surely not a man ungently made. 
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost ? 
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown. 
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed, 
Still last to come where thou art wanted most ! 

XXXIL — TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT. 
1806. — 1807. 
Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them 
Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
Owed many years of early liberty. 
This care was thine when sickness did condemn 
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem — 
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
Where'er I liked ; and finally array 
My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth ; 
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, 
In my past verse ; or shall be, in the lays 
Of higher mood which now I meditate, 
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth ! 
To think how much of this will be thy praise. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 3^5 

XXXIIL — NOVEMBER, 1806. 

1806.— 1807. 
Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
'T is well ! from this day forward we shall know 
That in ourselves our safety must be sought ; 
That by our own right hands it must be wrought ; 
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. 
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer ! 
We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
Be men who hold its many blessings dear, 
Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile band, 
Who are to judge of danger which they fear, 
And honor which they do not understand. 

XXXIV. —ADMONITION. 
1806. — 1807, 
Well mayst thou halt — and gaze with brightening eye ! 
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
But covet not the Abode ; — forbear to sigh, 
As many do, repining while they look ; 
Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. 
Think what the home must be if it were thine, 
Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, door, 
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day 
On which it should be touched, would melt away. 



SI 6 SELECT/OATS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XXXV. — ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND. 

1807. — 1807. 
Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 
One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice : 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
They were thy chosen music. Liberty ! 
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven : 
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left ; 
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 
That Mountain floods should thunder as before. 
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! 

XXXVI.— TO THOMAS CLARKSON, 

1807. — 1807. 
Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb : 
How toilsome — nay, how dire — it was, by thee 
Is known ; by none, perhaps, so feelingly : 
But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, 
Didst first lead forth that enterprise sublime, 
Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat, 
Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat, 
First roused thee. ^- O true yoke-fellow of Time, 
Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm 
Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn ! 
The blood-stained Writing is forever torn ; 
And thou henceforth wilt have a good man's calm, 
A great man's happiness ; thy zeal shall find 
Repose at length, firm friend of human kind ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 317 

XXXVII. 

1811.-1815. 
Here pause : the poet claims at least this praise, 
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope 
In the worst moment of these evil days ; 
From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, 
For its own honor, on man's suffering heart. 
Never may from our souls one truth depart — 
That an accursed thing it is to gaze 
On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye ; 
Nor — touched with due abhorrence of their guilt 
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, 
And justice labors in extremity — 
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, 
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 

XXXVIII. — TO B. R. HAYDON. 
1815.— 1816. 
High is our calling, Friend ! — Creative Art 
(Whether the instrument of words she use, 
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues). 
Demands the service of a mind and heart, 
Though sensitive yet, in their weakest part, 
Heroically fashioned — to infuse 
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 
While the whole world seems adverse to desert. 
And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may. 
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress. 
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, 
And in the soul admit of no decay, 
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness — 
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! 



3i8 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XXXIX.— TO CATHERINE WORDSWORTH. 
1815.— 1815. 
Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind 
I turned to share the transport — Oh ! with whom 
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, 
That spot which no vicissitude can find ? 
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind — 
But how could I forget thee ? Through what power, 
Even for the least division of an hour. 
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
To my most grievous loss? — That thought's return 
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, 
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; 
That neither present time, nor years unborn, 
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 

XL. — OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 
1820.— 1820. 
Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 
In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers 
Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours 
The air of liberty, the light of truth \ 
Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth : 
Yet, O ye spires of Oxford ! domes and towers ! 
Gardens and groves ! your presence overpowers 
The soberness of reason ; till, in sooth. 
Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange, 
I slight my own beloved Cam, to range 
Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet ; 
Pace the long avenue, or glide adown 
The stream-like windings of that glorious street — 
An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 319 

XLI. 

1820. — 1820. 
Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 
With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound 
Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound — 
Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid 
The sun in heaven ! — but now, to form a shade 
For Thee, green alders have together wound 
Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms around ; 
And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade. 
And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 
'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and gray ; 
Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes 
Carelessly watched, sport through the summer day, 
Thy pleased associates : — light as endless May 
On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 

XLII. — SEATHWAITE CHAPEL. 

1820. — 1820. 

Sacred Religion ! " mother of form and fear," 

Dread arbitress of mutable respect. 

New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked, 

Or cease to please the fickle worshipper : 

Mother of Love ! (that name best suits thee here) 

Mother of Love ! for this deep vale, protect 

Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, 

Gifted to purge the vapory atmosphere 

That seeks to stifle it ; — as in those days 

When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew 

Whose good works formed an endless retinue : 

A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays ; 

Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew ; 

And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise ! 



320 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XLIII. 

1820. — 1820. 
Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued, 
Even when a child, the Streams — unheard, unseen ; 
Through tangled woods, impending rocks between ; 
Or, free as air, with flying incjuest viewed 
The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood — 
Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen, 
Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green — 
Poured down the hills, a choral multitude ! 
Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gains ; 
'J'hey taught me random cares and truant joys, 
That shield from mischief and preserve from stains 
Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys ; 
Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise 
Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins. 

XLIV. 

1820. — 1820. 

Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce 

Of that serene companion — a good name. 

Recovers not his loss : but walks with shame. 

With doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse : 

And oft-times he, who, yielding to the force 

Of chance-temptation, ere his journey end. 

From chosen comrade turns, or faithful friend — 

In vain shall rue the broken intercourse. 

Not so with such as loosely wear the chain 

That binds them, pleasant River ! to thy side : — 

Through the rough coi)se wheel thou with hasty stride ; 

I choose to saunter o'er the grassy plain. 

Sure, when the separation has been tried, 

That we, who part in love, shall meet again. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 321 

XLV. — AFTERTHOUGHT. 
1820. — 1820. 

I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide, 

As being past away. — Vain sympathies ! 

For, backward, Duddon ! as I cast my eyes, 

I see what was, and is, and will abide ; 

Still glides the Stream, and shall forever glide ; 

The Form remains, the Function never dies ; 

While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, 

We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 

The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 

Enough, if something from our hands have power 

To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; 

And if, as toward the silent tomb we go. 

Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, 

We feel that we are greater than we know. 

XLVI.— INTRODUCTION TO ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 

1821.-1822. 
I, WHO accompanied with faithful pace 
Cerulean Duddon from his cloud- fed spring, 
And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing 
Of mountain-quiet and boon nature's grace ; 
I, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace 
Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string 
Till the checked torrent, proudly triumphing. 
Won for herself a lasting resting-place ; 
Now seek upon the heights of Time the source 
Of a Holy River, on whose banks are found 
Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that have crowned 
Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless force ; 
And, for delight of him who tracks its course. 
Immortal amaranth and palms abound. 



322 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

XLVIL — SECLUSION. 

1821. — 1822. 
Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side 
A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, 
Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, 
The war-worn Chieftain quits the world — to hide 
His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide 
In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell 
In soft repose he comes. Within his cell, 
Round the decaying trunk of human pride, 
At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour. 
Do penitential cogitations cling ; 
Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine 
In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ; 
Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring, 
For recompense — their own perennial bower. 

XLVIII. — MUTABILITY. 
1821. — 1822. 

From low to high doth dissolution climb, 

And sink from high to low, along a scale 

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail ; 

A musical but melancholy chime, 

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, 

Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 

Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear 

The longest date do melt like frosty rime. 

That in the morning whitened hill and plain 

And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime 

Of yesterday, which royally did wear 

His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain 

Some casual shout that broke the silent air, 

Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. Zi^ 

XLIX. — INSIDE KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. 
1821. — 1822. 
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned — 
Albeit laboring for a scanty band 
Of white-robed Scholars only — this immense 
And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 
Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore 
Of nicely-calculated less or more ; 
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense 
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, 
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
Lingering, and wandering on as loath to die ; 
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
That they were born for immortality. 

L. — CONTINUED. 

1821. — 1822. 
What awful perspective ! while from our sight 
With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide 
Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed 
In the soft checkerings of a sleepy light. 
Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, 
Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, 
Shine on, until ye- fade with coming Night ! — 
But, from the arms of silence — list ! O list ! 
The music bursteth into second life ; 
The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed 
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
Heart- thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye 
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy ! 



324 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

LI. — CONCLUDED. 

1821. — 1822. 

They dreamt not of a perishable home 
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fecT 
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here ; 
Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam ; 
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam 
Melts, if it cross the threshold ; where the wreath 
Of awe-struck wisdom droops : or let my ]Dath 
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome 
Hath typified by reach of daring art 
Infinity's embrace ; whose guardian crest. 
The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread 
As now, when She hath also seen her breast 
Filled with mementos, satiate with its part 
Of grateful England's overflowing Dead. 

LIL 

1823. — 1827. 
Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change. 
Nor Du^y struggling with afflictions strange — 
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell ; 
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, 
There also is the Muse not loath to range. 
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, 
Skyward ascending from a woody dell. 
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavor, 
And sage content, and placid melancholy ; 
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river — 
Diaphanous because it travels slowly ; 
Soft is the music that would charm forever ; 
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 325 

LIII. — TO ROTHA Q. 

1827. — 1827. 
RoTHA, my Spiritual Child ! this head was grey 
When at the sacred font for thee I stood : 
Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, 
And shalt become thy own sufficient stay : 
Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day 
For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil ; 
Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 
Embodied in the music of this Lay, 
Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream 
Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear 
After her throes, this Stream of name more dear 
Since thou dost bear it, — a memorial theme 
For others : for thy future self, a spell 
To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell. 

LIV. — TO IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR. 

1827. — 1827. 
Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright, 
Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 
By favoring Nature and a saintly Mind 
To something purer and more exquisite 
Than flesh and blood ; where'er thou meet'st my sight. 
When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek. 
Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, 
And head that droops because the soul is meek, 
Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare ; 
That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb 
From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, 
And filling more and more with crystal light 
As pensive Evening deepens into night. 



326 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

LV. 

1827. — 1827. 

Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 

Mindless of its just honors ; with this key 

Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 

With it Cambens soothed an exile's grief; 

The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 

Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 

His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp, 

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land, 

To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 

P'ell round the path of Milton, in his hand 

The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew 

Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 

LVL — TO THE AUTHOR'S TORTRAIT. 
1830. — 1835. 

Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt 
Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place ; 
And, if Time spare the colors for the grace 
Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, 
Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt 
And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem 
. To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, 
And think and feel as once the Poet felt. 
Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown 
Unrecognized through many a household tear 
More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew 
By morning shed around a flower half-blown ; 
Tears of delight, that testified how true 
To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 327 

LVIL — THE TROSSACHS. 
1S31.-1835. 

There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 

But were an apt confessional for One 

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 

That Life is but a tale of morning grass 

Withered at Eve. From scenes of art which chase 

That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 

Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 

Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, 

If from a golden perch of aspen spray 

(October's workmanship to rival May) 

The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 

That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 

Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest. 

LVIII. — THE PIBROCH'S NOTE. 
1831. — 1835. 

The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute ; 

The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy 

Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy ; 

The target mouldering like ungathered fruit ; 

The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit. 

As eagerly pursued ; the umbrella spread 

To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head — 

All speak of manners withering to the root. 

And of old honors, too, and passions high : 

Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should range 

Among the conquests of civility, 

Survives imagination — to the change 

Superior? Help to virtue does she give? 

If not, O Mortals, better cease to live ! 



328 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

LIX. — HIGHLAND HUT. 

1831.-1835. 
See what gay wild-flowers deck this earth-built Cot, 
Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, 
Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray 
Like wreaths of vapor without stain or blot. 
The limpid mountain rill avoids it not ; 
And why shouldst thou t — If rightly trained and bred, 
Humanity is humble, finds no spot 
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. 
The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, 
Undressed the pathway leading to the door ; 
But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor ; 
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, 
Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer, 
Belike less happy. — Stand no more aloof ! 

LX. — TO THE RIVER DERWENT. 
1819.-1819-35. 
Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream ! 
Thou near the eagle's nest, — within brief sail, 
I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, 
Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the beam 
Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
On mortal notice. — Glory of the vale. 
Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail. 
Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
Of thy soft breath ! — Less vivid wreath entwined 
Nemaean victor's brow ; less bright was worn. 
Meed of some Roman chief — in triumph borne 
With captives chained ; and shedding from his car 
The sunset splendors of a finished war 
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 329 

LXI. — IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH. 
1833.— 1835. 
A POINT of life between my Parents' dust, 
And yours, my buried Little-ones ! am I ; 
And to those graves looking habitually, 
In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
Death to the innocent is more than just, 
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ; 
So may I hope, if truly I repent 
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must : 
And You, my Offspring ! that do still remain, 
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, 
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain 
We breathed together for a moment's space. 
The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign, 
And only love keep in your hearts a place. 

LXIL — FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH CASTLE. 
1833. -1835. 

" Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, 

Poet ! that, stricken as both are by years. 

We, differing once so much, are now Compeers, 

Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink 

Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link 

United us ; when thou, in boyish play, 

Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey 

To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 

Of light was there ; and thus did I, thy Tutor, 

Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave ; 

While thou wert chasing the winged butterfly 

Through my green courts ; or climbing, a bold suitor. 

Up to the flowers whose golden progeny 

Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave." 



33^ SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

LXIIL — MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
1833-- 1835. 
Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, 
The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore ; 
And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore 
Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed ! . 
And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud 
Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts, 
When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) 
She smiled ; but Time, the old Saturnian seer, 
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand, 
With step preclusive to a long array 
Of woes and degradations hand in hand — 
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay ! 

LXIV. 

1833- -1835. 
" There ! " said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride 
Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, 
" Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that 's the very field 
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide 
A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried 
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose ; 
And, by that simple notice, the repose 
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
Beneath " the random bield of clod or stone " 
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
Have passed away ; less happy than the One 
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove 
The tender charm of poetrv and love. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 331 

LXV. 

1833. -1835. 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 

To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 

While a fair region round the traveller hes 

Which he forbears again to look upon ; 

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 

The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 

Of meditation, shpping in between 

The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 

If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 

Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : 

With Thought and Love companions of our way, 

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, 

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 

Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 

LXVI. — THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO. 

1837. — 1842. 
I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine 
Look like a cloud — a slender stem the tie 
That bound it to its native earth — poised high 
'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, 
Striving in peace each other to outshine. 
But when I learned the Tree was living there. 
Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care, 
Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine ! 
The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright 
And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, 
Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight, 
Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome 
(Then first apparent from the Pincian Height) 
Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome. 



332 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

LXVII. — COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING. 
1838.— 1838. 
Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, 
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. 
Does joy approach ? they meet the coming tide ; 
And sullenness avoid, as now they shun 
Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in the sun 
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied ; 
Or gambol, — each with his shadow at his side, 
Varying its shape wherever he may run. 
As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew 
All turn, and court the shining and the green, 
Where herbs look up, and oi)ening flowers are seen ; 
Why to God's goodness cannot We be true ? 
And so. His gifts and promises between, 
Feed to the last on pleasures ever new ? 

LXVIIL 

1838. — 1838. 
Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will 
Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts : whose eye 
Sees that, apart from magnanimity. 
Wisdom exists not ; nor the humbler skill 
Of Prudence, disentangling good and ill 
With patient care. What tho' assaults run high, 
I'hey daunt not him who holds his ministry, 
Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil 
Its duties ; prompt to move, but firm to wait ; 
Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely found ; 
That, for the functions of an ancient State — 
Strong by her charters, free because imbound. 
Servant of Providence, not slave of Fate — 
Perilous is sweeping change, all chance unsound. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. ZZ2, 

LXIX. — TO A PAINTER. 
1 841. — 1842. 

All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed ; 

But 't is a fruitless task to paint for me, 

Who, yielding not to changes Time has made, 

By the habitual light of memory see 

Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, 

And smiles that from their birthplace ne'er shall flee 

Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be ; 

And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 

Could'st thou go back into far-distant years. 

Or share with me, fond thought ! that inward eye, 

Then, and then only. Painter ! could thy Art 

The visual powers of Nature satisfy. 

Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, 

Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart. 

LXX. — TO THE SAME. 
1841. — 1842. 

Though I beheld at first with blank surprise 
This Work, I now have gazed on it so long 
I see its truth with unreluctant eyes ; 
O, my Beloved ! I have done thee wrong. 
Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung 
Ever too heedless, as I now perceive : 
Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, 
And the old day was welcome as the young, 
As welcome, and as beautiful, — in sooth 
More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : 
Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth 
Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; 
To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast 
Into one vision, future, present, past. 



334 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. 

LXXI. 

1842. — 1842. 

A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school, 

Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff 

Which Art hath lodged within his hand ; must laugh 

By precept only, and shed tears by rule. 

Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff. 

And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, 

In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool 

Have killed him. Scorn should write his epitaph. 

How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold ? 

Because the lovely little flower is free 

Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; 

And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 

Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 

But from its own divine vitality. 



NOTES, 



CHRONOLOGICAL AND ITINERARY. 



1770 . . . Birth. 

1778 ... At Hawkshead School. 

1787 ... At Cambridge. 

1790 . . . Vacation Tour through France, Switzerland, and Italy. 

1 791 . . . Graduation; visits London, Wales, and France. 

1792 . . . Return to London. 

1793 ... At Isle of Wight. 

1794 ... At Penrith, with Calvert. 

1 795 . . . Settles at Racedown. 

1 797 . . . Removes to Alf oxden. 

1798 . . . Visits Germany (Goslar). 

1799 . . . Leaves Goslar ; htgms. Prelude ; settles at Dove Cottage, 

Town-End, Grasmere. 

1802 . . . Marriage. 

1803 . . . Tour in Scotland. 

1805 . . . Death of John Wordsworth. 

1808 . . . Removes to Allan Bank, Grasmere; The Excursion. 

181 1 . . . Removes to the Parsonage, Grasmere. 

1813 . . . Removes to Rydal Mount. 

1814 . . . Second Visit to Scotland. 
1820 . . . Visits the Continent. 
1831 . . . Visits Abbotsford. 

1833 . . . Last Visit to Scotland. 
1837 . . . Italian Tour. 
1839 . . . Oxford Degree. 
1842 . . . Poet Laureate. 
1850 . . . Death. 



NOTES. 



1785-1797. 

Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem. 

Written at Hawkshead during Wordsworth's school-days. The im- 
age with which the poem concludes suggested itself to the Poet while 
he was resting in a boat on Coniston Lake under the shadow of the 
sycamores which stood on the promontory near Coniston Hall. 

" The first verses I wrote were a task imposed by my master. I 
was called upon to write verses upon the completion of the second 
centenary of the school (1785). These were much admired — far 
more than they deserved — for they were but a tame imitation of 
Pope's versification, and a little in his style." Cf. Prelude^ v. 553-577. 

The Poet was thy nursling ; here he drank 
His first boy thoughts of Nature and her will : 
How often fresh from school he clomb this hill, 
And stretched in sun upon the heathy bank, 
Endowed with life the mountains, rank on rank, 
Or, in the time of earliest daffodil. 
Watched April storm the valley fill. 

From Sonnet on Hawkshead by H, D. Raivnsley. 

Lines left upon a Seat In a Yew-tree. 

Written in part as a school exercise at Hawkshead. — W. W. 

Wordsworth and his sister began house-keeping at Racedown Lodge, 
near Crewkerne, Dorsetshire, in the autumn of 1795. Coleridge, then 
living at Nether Stowey in Somersetshire, first met Wordsworth at 
Racedown in June, 1797. The pleasure of this meeting and succeeding 
ones made the poets desirous of being nearer each other ; and in July 
the Wordsworths removed to Alfoxden, within a few miles of Nether 
Stowey. Here was formed the idea of a joint literary production, 
which gave us the Ancient Marinere and the Lyrical Ballads. See 
Prelude, Prefatory Note, and xiv. 388-407. 

22 



33^ NOTES TO PAGES 2-4. 



Alfoxden was a large mansion, beautifully located on a slope of 
the Quantock Hills, in sight of Bristol Channel. Woods of old oaks 
and large hollies, with abundant fern and foxglove, stretch in every 
direction, broken here and there by pleasant downs and valleys 
through which the brooks run singing to the sea. Dorothy wrote : 
" The deer dwell here, and the sheep, so that we have a lively pros- 
pect; walks extend for miles over the hill-tops." This was the Poet's 
spring-time of energy and imaginative insight. 

I. The yew-tree stood on the eastern side of the lake about ten 
minutes' walk from Hawkshead. At the present time a yew-tret mis- 
named " Wordsworth's yew " stands near the spot. 

12. The individual spoken of was educated at tl^ University and 
was a man of talent and learning. — W. W. 

31, 32. Wordsworth never finds the gloom of Nature a reflection of 
his own. She is never to him, — 

"Calm as to suit a calmer grief." 
She exerts herself to cure the chronic disease of egotism, despond- 
ency, and misanthropy. Cf. Tintern Abbey and Prehide, xii. 88-151. 

50-64. Wordsworth's sympathy for men was so deep and sincere 
that while he had an uncompromising hatred of evil, he did not extend 
the hatred to the doer of evil ; he could see the " soul of goodness 
in all things," and thus distinguish between weakness and wickedness. 
The moral teaching of this poem would seem to be the voice of 
age, and yet the Poet was but twenty-five at this time. Aubrey De 
Vere says that the passion of the poem is not personal, but intel- 
lectual and imaginative, and thence derives its power to arouse emo- 
tion ; the moral was not thought out beforehand, but was produced 
by the quickening of thought during composition. In few poets do 
we find such tenderness and delicacy of feeling united with such 
strength and independence. 

For an exceedingly interesting account of the Alfoxden and Stowey 
days, see Mrs. Sandf ord's Thomas Poole and His Friends. 

1798. 

We are Seven. 

Composed while walking in the grove at Alfoxden in the spring 
of 1798. Five years before, Wordsworth had met the little girl in 
the area of Goodrich Castle. When the poem was completed, with 
the exception of the introductory stanza, and the fact mentioned to 
Coleridge, he immediately threw off, — 

*• A simple child, dear brother Jem^^'' 



NOTES TO PAGES 4-1 1. 339 

and this verse stood at the head of the poem until 181 5. Popular as 
this little poem has become in virtue of its unwithering beauty, it can- 
not be fully appreciated until it is placed in its proper relation to 
the great Ode. 

Wherever Wordsworth deals with the subject of Death it is with 
calmness and childlike simplicity. Wisely does he rest the solution 
of the great question of Immortality, not upon the dicta of the wise 
and prudent, but upon the heaven-taught wisdom of the child, before 
its ideas are corrupted by the senses, and the " trailing clouds of 
glory" disappear. The necessity of possessing the child-spirit in 
order to enter the kingdom of truth lies at the root of Wordsworth's 
philosophy, while its revelations constitute for him the Intimations 
of Immortality. In this ballad we have, in the simplest language, 
the "contemplative contrast" between the buoyant health, the joy- 
ous beauty of the child-life, and what we call Death ; this contrast 
is maintained by that form of art the perfection of which is self- 
concealment. 

Simon Lee. 

The incident which suggested this poem occurred at Alfoxden; the 
old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden. — W. W. 

24. The expression, " I dearly love their voice," was word for word 
from the old man's lips. — W. W. 

Wordsworth's lack of dramatic power has often been insisted upon, 
and not without reason, for he frequently fails when dealing with a 
variety of incidents ; hence he uses for the most part the simplest 
narratives, as in this poem, and treats them "with a plain, first- 
hand, almost austere naturalness." This peculiarity is eminently char- 
acteristic of him, whether he is dealing with landscape or anecdote. 

65,66. The result of such "silent thought" is to stimulate our 
sympathy so that it may be called forth by every common incident 
of ])leasure or of pain, and thus build up our moral being. 

93-96. In this power of opening up rich veins of feeling by the 
simplest incident, Wordsworth is unsurpassed. This is what Matthew 
Arnold means when«he says : " The greatness of Wordsworth lies in 
his powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life." 

Lines Written in Early Spring. 

A chosen resort of the two poets and Dorothy, while at Alfoxden, 
was a grove, and a pool made by a brook which ran down from the 
Comb. 



340 NOTES TO PAGES 11-14. 

8. Cf. Prelude, xi. 206-209. 

9, 10. Across the pool a tree had fallen ; and the leaves, for want of 
sun-light, were almost white, while from this sylvan bridge depended 
beautiful tresses of ivy. — W. W. 

13-24. Wordsworth has shown us in the Prelude the steps by 
which he rose to the idea of Divine Life in Nature, While viewing 
Nature as a personality, having thoughts, plans, emotions, and pleas- 
ures, he avoids the extreme of idealism, for he never robs Nature of 
her qualities by making them depend upon the thought of man ; nor, 
on the other hand, does he give aid to the materialist by making man 
a creature of necessity. This view of Nature, as ever expressing the 
joy and pleasure of God in his own work, fills his poetry with sweet- 
ness and //^'■///, and gives it the power to heal and cleanse. 

It was through this little poem that Wordsworth won the love and 
admiration of the late Dr. Hudson. 

To My Sister. 

Composed in front of the house at Alfoxden, where, between two 
large elms overlooking the park and the sea, the Poet used to read 
and compose. 

9-16. This picture of happy rural life does one good. The Poet, 
sauntering on the lawn while the " gladsome choristers " are singing, 
is thrilled with the life and the joy of Nature, but cannot enjoy it to 
the full except the Sister be sharer, and so he sends her these lines ere 
her morning task be done. 

Of the relation of Wordsworth to his sister much will be said in 
connection with the poems descriptive of her. 

The following is from Mr. E. Paxton Hood: "Not Laura with 
Petrarch, nor Beatrice^ with Dante, nor the fair Geraldine with Sur- 
rey, are more really connected than is Wordsworth with his sister 
Dorothy." 

25-28. Nature refuses to reveal her secrets to those who " pore and 
dwindle as they pore," lacking the spirit of reverence. To those who 
approach her in the spirit of humility she reveals her beauty and her 
majesty ; of all our seeing this is the Master Light. 

It seems the duty of the naturalist to be a poet in his severest 
analysis to make the naturalist subordinate to the man. — Emerson. 

Expostulation and Reply. 
This poem and the following were composed in front of the house 
at Alfoxden. 



NOTES TO PAGES 14-17. 341 

15. The " Matthew " of this poem and other poems was William 
Taylor, Wordsworth's schoolmaster at Hawkshead. 

21-32. Wordsworth, when making " rigorous inquisition " to ascer- 
tain his qualifications for a poet, found that he possessed the first 
great gift, a vital soul : this he can develop in us so that by it the prod- 
ucts of the senses and the intellect will be transmuted into moral 
and spiritual power. In the periods of "wise passiveness," those 
thoughts and emotions which in our busy hours have almost escaped 
from our consciousness, are collected, brought home, and become 
truths which perish never. 

To a mind fretted with analysis and a heart breaking against the 
hard problems of existence, this " divine philosophy " comes with 
healing power. 

The Tables Turned. 

21-28. The Poet does not here teach a life of emotion rather than a 
life of action, but he insists upon a truth which all moral teachers 
inculcate, — that the mind requires periods of repose in which to 
gather up the crumbs of thought which otherwise in the whirl of our 
life would be lost. 

Though his poetry reads so transcendental, and is so meditative, 
there never was a poet so little of a dreamer as Wordsworth.— 

HUTTON. 

28-32. If a narrow interpretation finds here a hatred of science, it is 
of that form of science which insists that the intellect is the only organ 
of truth : the Poet has no words of condemnation for that larger 
science represented by Newton, Faraday, and Agassiz, — a science 
which recognized the truths of the imagination as well as those of 
experiment. He everywhere condemns the tendency to consider 
animal comforts the end of being. 

Mr. Myers says : " It is hardly too much to say that if these two 
poems, to the careless eye so slight and trifling, were all that had re- 
mained from Wordsworth's hand, they would have ' spoken to the 
comprehending ' of a new individuality as distinct and unmistakable 
in its way as that which Sappho has left engraven on the world for- 
ever in words even fewer than these." 

Tintern Abbey. 

No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant 
for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern after 
crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol dur- 
ing the evening, after a ramble of four or five days with my sister. 



342 NOTES TO PAGES 17-22. 

Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till 
I reached Bristol. — Lyrical Ballads. 

This was the last poem of that remarkable volume of 1798. 

22-65. That spiritualization of Nature which was noticed in the 
former poems is here carried to its highest point of sublimity. In the 
Poet's idea of human life those instincts, impulses, and emotions of 
youth — those momentary visions — have a divine origin; he teaches 
that the mature reason, instead of treating these as illusions, should 
regulate and cherish them as means of ennobling the character. The 
poetry of our advancing years will be derived from these "emotions 
recollected in tranquillity." 

65-1 10. The three periods in the Poet's experience up to this time 
were — 

(i) When the love of Nature was supreme. (2) When the love of 
Nature was secondary to the love of Man. (3) When the marriage 
of Man and Nature had taken place through the strength of spiritual 
vision. 

Cf. Prelude, ii. 419-451 ; ix. 501-552; xi. 321-369. These "au- 
thentic tidings of invisible things " which fortify us to do or to endure 
can be perceived only by spiritual contemplation. 

111-159. The tribute which the Poet paid to his sister is the highest 
which one soul can pay to another : he was never weary of singing 
her praise, nor was she ever tired of trying to make herself worthy of 
his praise. Endowed with faculties capable of gaining distinction in 
the same sphere of work, she nevertheless chose to let him sing of 
what she felt and saw. To those familiar with the close of her life 
these words seem prophetic ; for she lingered a few years after her 
brother's death, and her chief solace seemed to be the remembrance 
of days passed in his companionship. More has been written of this 
poem than of any other of his unless it be the " Platonic Ode." 

It is the seed-thought of all the poetry of the first half of the eigh- 
teenth century. — E. P. Whipple. 

The soul of the poet here comes in contact with Him who is the 
author and upholder of Nature and of man. — Prof. Shairp. 

His imagination was of too spiritual an order to shape itself into 
material divinities, and his conscience bore witness to a Personal God, 
the Creator of all things. . , . Had he lost his hold of Religion he 
would have lost Nature also, — for to him she would have been Na- 
ture no longer. — De Vere. 

This poem has become the locus classicus, or consecrated formulary 
of Wordsworthian faith. — Myers. 



NOTES TO PAGES 22-28. 343 

To those who are strangers to this state of impassioned contempla- 
tion, Wordsworth's poetry, or all that is highest in it, is a sealed 
book. — DowDEN. 

Cf. Bryant's Thanatopsis. 

The Old Cumberland Beggar. 

Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a 
child. Written at Racedown and Alfoxden. The Political Econo- 
mists were about that time beginning their war upon mendicity in 
all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, upon alms-giving 
also.— W. W. 

The " Growth of a Poet's Mind " as Wordsworth has revealed it to 
us in the Prelude shows the means which Nature used to educate him 
into the poet of humanity. Humble men and women, the village 
dames, the thrifty dalesmen, and the hardy shepherds — 
" Of these, said I, shall be my song, of these 
Will I record the praises, 
That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
Where it is due." 
For this work his early associations and the inspiration of the 
great Peasant Poet of Scotland had predisposed him. 

In order to see what a giant stride these poems took in advance of 
the age, we need to compare them with the poems which preceded. 
Of man as found in the abodes of wealth and refinement, preceding 
poetry had been mindful ; and Wordsworth was too broad not to rec- 
ognize that from hence had proceeded much that was pure and un- 
worldly, yet he believed that rich veins of poetic feeling lay hidden in 
the lives of homely men and women. This was, as Robertson says, a 
" high and holy work," and for it both the rich and the poor praise him. 
1-66. Plain imagination and severe could hardly produce a more 
distinct picture of one who, to the eye of the economist, had outlived 
all usefulness. 

His is the poetry of intellect and of feeling — of humanity in the ab- 
stract chiefly ; and yet what is more human than The Old Cumberland 
Be^^i^ar ? — Author of " Rab and His Friends." 

67-87. See notes on Lines Left tipon a Seat in a Yew- Tree. 
87-170. While the apparent usefulness of the old man has ceased, 
the Poet, by his penetrative insight, reaches essential elements and 
recognizes a sphere of passive usefulness. Those who are unable to 
enter into any of the more elaborate schemes of philanthropy find 
here a field for the exercise of that form of charity which sounds no 



344 NOTES TO PAGES 28-30. 

trumpet before it ; here the poor dame learns that ** it is more blessed 
to give than to receive," and that unselfishness dignifies life. It is in 
such lessons as this that the manifold wisdom and truth of Words- 
worth's poetry consists, — a wisdom not of demonstration and the 
schools, but of those "sweet counsels of head and heart." 

Wordsworth's genius did not grasp many things, but it grasped 
much ; like one of his own bees, he can murmur by the hour in fox- 
glove bells. — R. H. HuTTON. 

Aubrey de Vere has done the student of Wordsworth signal service 
in showing that he is pre-eminently the poet of Passion, and in refer- 
ence to the exhibition of it in this poem he says : " Before a poet cap 
afford such sympathy as this ... he requires to possess not only a 
happy temperament but a strong one. The weak sympathize but 
with the weak, and weaken them more by such sympathy. , . . 
Wordsworth's poetry delights to graft the softer virtues on the hard- 
ier stock." 

In the treatment of characters like " The Old Cumberland Beggar " 
Wordsworth's art resembles that of Turner : the central idea in the 
work of each is its healing power, while their plainness of style is due 
to contempt for artifice. 

Animal Tranquillity and Decay. 
If I recollect right these verses were an overflow from The Old 
Cumberland Beggar. — W. W. 

1799. 

Having completed the Lyrical Ballads, which secured for them the 
necessary funds, the three friends, in September, 1798, set out for Ger- 
many with the intention of studying the language. At Hamburg they 
met the aged Klopstock, — the "German Milton," — and here Cole- 
ridge lefl them and passed on to Gottingen, where he studied metaphys- 
ics. Wordsworth and his sister settled for the winter at Goslar, an old 
imperial town in Hanover, and it was here that the following poems 
were written. They show that although the Poet was in a strange 
land his heart was with the scenes of his youth. Of the poems writ- 
ten in Germany Wordsworth says : — 

" A bitter winter it was when these verses were composed by the 
side of my sister in our lodgings, at a draper's house, in the romantic 
imperial town of Goslar, on the edge of the Hartz forest. . . . With 
the protection of a pelisse lined with fur and a dogskin bonnet such 
as was worn by the peasants, I walked daily on the ramparts." 



NOTES TO PAGES 30-32. 345 

Nutting. 

Written in Germany; intended as a part of a poem on my own 
life, but struck out as not being wanted there. Like most of my 
school-fellows I was an impassioned nutter. For this pleasure the 
vale of Esthwaite, abounding in coppice wood, furnished a very wide 
range. These verses arose out of the remembrance of feelings I had 
often had when a boy. — W. W. See Pi-elude, i. 301-339. 

In but few instances does Wordsworth deal with Nature alone ; as 
a rule Nature is but the setting for the subject Man, and has its sig- 
nificance in relation to him. In this poem, so largely descriptive, we 
have an illustration of the subtle connection of Nature with the mind 
of man, — a connection which is not easy for some minds to grasp ; 
by them the attitude of mind in which we here see the Poet is 
brusquely labelled Pantheism. Yet Wisdom is justified of her chil- 
dren, and every work of art, in so far as it is appreciated by us, must 
appeal to the artist in us. 

This form of impassioned imagination views Nature as a manifesta- 
tion of the life of God, and is unlike any which had before appeared in 
poetry. The classic or ideal imagination which we find in the Greeks 
and in the poetry which followed, viewed Nature under the aspect of 
several wills working through Nymphs, Dryads, and Satyrs ; to recog- 
nize to what an extent these ideas governed English poetry we have 
but to consult any characteristic poems of Pope, Dryden, Shelley, or 
Keats. Wordsworth expunged all these stock words from his poeti- 
cal vocabulary ; and although he was at times too stern in his realism, 
and needlessly incurred the anathemas of the critics, yet here natural 
good taste and sense prevailed over the foibles of false aestheticism. 
In this method of viewing Nature the Poet makes common cause with 
modern science, which teaches that all the forms of force are varieties 
of one primal force ; and if it does not affirm personality of this, yet it 
does not deny it. 

" Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known." 

It is fortunate for us that Wordsworth was not absorbed in German 
philosophy, else we never would have possessed these exquisite 
poems on Lucy, — pearls gathered upon a golden thread. P'ive short 
poems are all we have of her whom we know not, save as she is here 
enshrined with an " artlessness which only art can know." In these 
poems the artist has risen to the highest and completest realization 
of that creed in which is written, — 

" Thy art be nature." 



346 NOTES TO PAGES 32-39. 

To analyze such poems as these is almost a sin ; as well might one 
attempt to ascertain by the microscope the source of beauty in the 
flower. 

They are genuine love-poems, and yet how far removed from that 
species of love-poetry which encourages vulgar curiosity, or the pa- 
rade of the inmost sanctuary of the heart. All that is given us is 
that Lucy once lived, is now no more. 

The pathos in this record of anxious foreboding, profound sorrow, 
and calm despair, is holy. Of it Mrs. Oliphant says: "Never were 
words more simple, more every-day ; and yet it is hard to read them 
without tears; impossible if the reader's life has ever held a Lucy of 
its own." Many have wondered why one who could write such love- 
poems as these wrote so few. Aubrey de Vere says : " This question 
was once put to the Poet by myself; and a part of the reply was this, 
— * Had I been a writer of love-poetry it would have been natural to 
me to write it with a degree of warmth which could hardly have beeji 
approved by my principles.' " In his stanzas The Poet and the Caged 
Turtle Dove we find this additional answer, — 

" Love, blessed love, is everywhere 
The SPIRIT of my song." 

A Poet's Epitaph. 

During these walks (about Goslar) I composed the poem that 
follows. — W. W. 

37-56. In this portrait of Wordsworth's ideal poet we find clearly 
marked those characteristics which he himself possessed, and which 
rendered it impossible for the world to listen to him until it had 
learned that the sphere of poetry was not limited to the extraordinary 
in the life of man and Nature. 

In the use of Wordsworth as a text-book in school we find that his 
poetry makes no sudden conquests, — it is too homely in its nature for 
that ; it is only as the pupil comes to love it, that it seems worthy of 
his love. Again, its deepest truths do not reach the pupil by being 
made the subject of recitatioiiy but in that afterthought which every 
exercise with poetry ought to produce. The highest lesson of his 
poetry is learned when we find that enjoyment is not a product of the 
understanding, but that the truest understanding comes from enjoy- 
ment, — from sympathy. 

F. W. Robertson says: "And here lies the great difficulty of our 
age; that it is an age of cant without love, of criticism without re- 
verence. . . . What we want is the old spirit of our forefathers; the 



NOTES TO PAGES 39-52. 347 

firm conviction that not by criticism, but by sympathy, we must under- 
stand; what we want is more reverence, more love, more humanity." 
Cf . Thomson's Castle of Indolence^ Canto ii. 't/}^. 

Address to the Scholars of the Village School of . 

The school was that of Hawkshead, where the Poet spent nine 
years, the " Friend and Father " (the " Matthew " of the three follow- 
ing poems) was Rev. William Taylor, the third of the four masters dur- 
nig those years. Not long before his death he summoned the upper 
boys of the school (Wordsworth being one) and gave them his part- 
nig blessing. He was buried in Cartmell church-yard. See Prelude, 
X 532. 

Matthew. 

Hawkshead school was founded by Archbishop Sandys in 15S5, 
and is now very much as it was in the Poet's time. Cut in one of the 
oaken benches is the name, William VVordsiuorth^ which is covered 
with glass to protect it from the vandalism of tourists. A tablet on 
the wall of the room contains the names of the masters. 

The Two April Mornings, and The Fountain. 

The sketch given in these four Matthew poems is worthy of a place 
beside that other of the unknown Lucy. If these are not poems 
in a style at once unique and perfect, our language has no such 
poems. — Prof. Shairp. 

Lucy Gray. 

Written at Goslar, in Germany, in 1799. ^^ was founded on a cir- 
cumstance told me by my sister, of a little girl who not far from Hali- 
fax, in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps 
were tracked by her parents to the middle of a lock of a canal, and no 
other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. — W. W. 

1800. 

In the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths left Goslar and visited their 
relatives, the Hutchinsons, at Sockburn-on-Tees, County Durham; 
there they remained until autumn. In September Wordsworth, his 
brother John, and Coleridge made an excursion through the Lake 
ristrict. They were greatly pleased with the vale of Grasmere and 
the cottage at Town-End which bore the sign of The Dove and Olive 
Bough. Wordsworth took up his abode here in December, 1799. 



348 NOTES TO PAGES 52-54. 

See Prelude i. 1-131. These poems of 1800-1805 seem to have 
been written as recreations while the Poet was at work upon the 
Prelude. 

"On Nature's Invitation do I Come." 

The date of composition of this and the following poem is not 
known, — they are fragments from the Recluse. Compare this de- 
scription of the vale with that of Gray . — 

" Not a single red tile, no flaring gentleman's house, or garden 
walls break in upon the repose of this little unsuspected paradise , but 
all is peace, rusticity, and happy poverty in its neatest and most be- 
coming attire." 

" Bleak Season was it, Turbulent and Wild." 
Wordsworth and his sister left Sockburn on the 19th of December, 
1799, ^^''d after a journey of three days over snow and ice, turning 
aside to see the frozen waterfalls and watch the changing aspect of 
cloud and sunshine, they reached Dove Cottage on the 21st. During 
the years of residence here, by dint of " plain living and high think- 
ing," was produced that poetry which placed Wordsworth among the 
Immortals. Dove Cottage is perhaps more often thought of in con- 
nection with the Poet than is Rydal, the home of his later years. 

The situation was beautiful for prospect, being on the right of the 
road over White Moss Common as you approach Grasmere from 
Ambleside. The garden, so often alluded to in his poetry, slopes up- 
ward to the wooded heights, and has not suffered much alteration 
since 1800. Here still bloom the primroses and daffodils. From the 
terrace, approached by stone steps cut by Wordsworth himself, one 
gets a beautiful view across the lake to Silver How, Red Bank, 
and Loughrigg, on the west and south : while to the east and north 
the eye ranges from Fairfield, Helvellyn, and Dunmail Raise, to 
Helm Crag and Easdale. The view from the front of the house has 
become obstructed by cottages and a pretentious modern hotel. The 
description given in the following poem refers to this abode. 

Hart-Leap Well. 

Written at Town-End, Grasmere. The first eight stanzas were 
composed extempore one winter evening in the cottage. When 
Wordsworth and his sister were making the memorable journey 
from Sockburn to Gr. smere, they met a peasant who told them the 



NOTES TO PAGES 54-62. 349 

story of the Hart. In 1887 I visited the scene here described and 
found a desolate spot indeed. 

" More doleful place did never eye survey." 

The aspens and stone pillars are no more, but the stone basin still 
remains. A wall has been built where it is possible that the " pillars " 
stood. Rev. Mr. Hutchinson, who visited the place in 1S83, thinks 
the stone in the wall, which shows signs of having been hammer- 
dressed, may be one of the "pillars." 

99, 100. I never list presume on Pamasse hill, 

But piping low in shade of lowly grove, 
I play to please myself, all be it ill. 

Spenser. 

161-168. Here we have an illustration of what Mr. Matthew Arnold 
calls Wordsworth's chief excellence, — the way in which he deals with 
the question How to live. 

" In common things that round us lie, 
Some random truths he can impart." 

We are sharers not only of animal but of vegetable life ; sharers 
with the higher brute animals in common instincts and feelings and 
affections. ... I fancy that human beings maybe more humane when 
they realize that, as their dependent associates live a life in which 
man has a share, so they have rights which man is bound to respect. — 
Prof. Asa Gray, Natural Science and Religion. 

See notes on Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew- Tree. 

The Brothers. * 

This poem was composed in a grove at the northeastern end of 
Grasmere Lake, which grove was in a great measure destroyed by 
turning the highroad along the side of the water. The few trees that 
are left were spared at my intercession. The poem arose out of the 
fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep 
upon the top of the rock called the Pillar, and perished as here 
described. The abruptness with which the poem begins is accounted 
for by the fact that it was intended to be a concluding poem of a 
series of pastorals, the scene of which is laid among the mountains 
of Cumberland and Westmoreland. — W. W. 

This exquisite idyl — the most dramatic of the Poet's works — 
possesses all the beauty and grandeur of the grand and beautiful vale 
in which the scene is laid. Ennerdale surpasses, in its chaotic gran- 



350 NOTES TO PAGE 62. 

deur, any other vale in the district; it is guarded by steep and lofty 
mountains which seem to force the little community of dalesmen into 
closer unity and affection. It is a fitting framework for a healthy 
social order. 

The localizations are exact, save when allusion is made to the 
" Pillar Rock " as the point from which James had fallen. Pillar 
Mountain evidently is meant, ^mc^ Pillar Rock is the most difficult 
bit of climbing in the district. 

The little hamlet, in its solemnity and peacefulness, is especially 
attractive to one whose life during most of the year is passed in the 
rush and roar of the city. Reading Wordsworth with this prospect 
before one renders the poem and the scene almost sacred. 

" Full many a spot 

Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 

Among the mountains ; never one like this, 

So lonesome and so perfectly secure ; 

Peace is here or nowhere." 

In the conception and execution of this poem Wordsworth is at 
his best. It was a subject characteristic of him as a man and a poet. 
In it the two great interests, Man and Nature, — the sphere of which 
he contributed so much to enlarge in literature, — find especial develop- 
ment. The picture with which the poem begins is one native to the 
soil of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and had peculiar charm for 
the Poet of "plain living and high thinking;" he delighted in this 
world of equality and ancient homeliness, where attention and respect 
rested not upon claims of wealth or blood, but upon worth and strenu- 
ous industry. The congratulations which the Vicar says would meet 
the returning sailor lad show to what an extent a Christian socialism 
prevailed in the happy vale. The process by which the Vicar is made 
at one time to alarm, at another to encourage, the stranger in his timid 
questionings, and to persist in talking about Leonard as of more 
interest now to the little community than is the dead brother, until 
at last the solemn truth is grasped, disproves all assertions that 
Wordsworth had no dramatic power. 

The part, too, which the aspect of Nature is made to play by the 
narration of the sudden disappearance of one of the becks on the 
hillside, is consummate ; for Leonard is about to conclude that the ap- 
parent change is due to himself rather than to Nature. By this rev- 
elation that he is not deceived, he first enters the shadows. The 
terrible blow is however delayed, and the faintest gleams of hoj^e are 
revived by that exquisitely beautiful picture of the adoption of James 



NOTES TO PAGES 62-79. 351 

as " the child of all the dale," at the time when, on the departure of 
his brother, " the little color that he had " was stealing from his cheek. 
The quiet and measured tones of the concluding words of the Vicar 
linger with us; while the pathos of the exclamation "My Brother! '' 
and the feeling of Leonard that the place is one in which he can no 
longer bear to live, is almost tragic. 

46-48. For a discussion of Wordsworth's use of sound see the 
notes to Yew-Trees, 1803. 

"It was an April Morning: Fresh and Clear." 

This and the two following poems belong to a class, On the Niuniu}^ 
of Places, written to record incidents which happened in connection 
with some of the Poet's friends. To one familiar with the Lake-land 
the evidence of attachments for localities where little incidents have 
taken place is seen in the names there preserved. All lovers of the 
Poet delight in identifying places especially dear to him. 

The scene of this poem is in Easdale, a half-hour's walk from Dove 
Cottage. Leaving Grasmere village we soon cross Goody Bridge and 
Easdale beck, by the side of which the Poet said he had composed 
thousands of verses. Following this beck from the bridge, we soon 
come to a deep pool, with a " single mountain cottage " not far distant. 
Dr. Cradock and Professor Knight conclude that this is the scene of 
the poem ; yet there are other places along the beck which answer the 
description equally well. It is certain that the winding path along 
this beck to the tarn was a chosen resort of Wordsworth and his 
sister. On the opposite side of the valley is the mountain terrace, 
Lancrigg, where the Prelude was composed. 

The Poet's sister is frequently referred to as " Emma," or 
" Emmeline." 

Cf . Bryant's Evening Reverie. 

To Joanna (Hutchinson). 
The scene is laid on the Kotha, the river which flows by the Gras- 
mere churchyard (where the Poet is buried), and empties into the 
lake ; thence it flows into Rydal Water. 

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
O Rotha, with thy living wave. 
Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
Hear thy voice right now he is gone. 

Matthew Arnold. 



352 NOTES TO PAGES 79-S2. 

The " lofty firs " are those in the churchyard by the 1 Jch gate. The 
tall rock is probably on the side of Helm Crag which overlooks the 
Vale from the north. Hammar-scar, Silver-How, Loughrigg, P^airfield, 
and Helvellyn are the mountains which surround the Vale; while 
Skiddaw, Glaramara, and Kirkstone are at a considerable distance on 
the north and east. 

"There is an Eminence." 

The "eminence" is Stone-Arthur, on the east of the road leading 
over Dunmail Raise, and is between Green Head Ghyll and Tongue 
Ghyll. It is not, however, visible from the " orchard seat." 

Father of English Heroes, Knight of Knights, 
Here Arthur sat, Pendragon newly-made. 

H. D. Rawnsley. 
The last verses refer to his sister. 

See Tintern Abbey, The Sparrow's Nest, and Prelude, xi. 333. 
One of the most interesting memorials of the Poet and his friends 
is the Rock of Names, which is on the right of the road to Keswick, by 
Thirlmere ; it is . 

" An upright mural block of stone 
Moist with pure water trickling down." 

Being about half-way between Grasmere and Keswick, it was the 
favorite meeting-place of Wordsworth and Coleridge. On it are 
carved the initials of Wordsworth, Mary Hutchinson, Dorothy, Cole- 
ridge, John Wordsworth, and Sara Hutchinson. Thr.nks to Rev. Mr. 
Rawnsley, Crosthwaite, Keswick, the rock is to be removed to higher 
ground. This is necessitated by the fact that the City of Manchester 
is about to convert Thirlmere into a reservoir. 

*' Rock of Names ! 



We worked until the Initials took 
Shapes that defied a scornful look. — 
Long as for us a genial feeling 
Survives, or one in need of healing. 
The power, dear Rock, around thee cast, 
Thy monumental power, shall last 
For me and mine ! O thought of pain, 
That would impair it or profane ! 
And fail not Thou, loved Rock! to keep 
Thy charge when we are laid asleep." 



NOTES TO PAGE 82. 353 

t 

Michael. 

Written at Town-End, Grasniere, about the same time as The 
Brothers. . . ./The character and circumstances of Luke were taken 
from a family to whom had belonged, many years before, the house 
we lived in at Town-End, along, with some fields and woodlands on 
the eastern shore of Grasmere. — W. W. 

Your teachers are wisest when they make you content in quiet vir- 
tue; and that literature and art are best for you which point out, in 
common life and familiar things, the objects for hopeful labor and 
for humble love. — RusKiN. 

To one familiar with the youth and education of Wordsworth it 
seems but natural that he should become the poet of humble life. 
The lives of such men as composed the peasantry of the district 
were dear to him, because in them he found (instead of smooth pre- 
cepts of morality) robust dignity, loyalty to truth, devotion to duty, 
and genial human-heartedness, together with a spirit of independence 
and stern liberty ; hence every such life had a profound lesson for 
him. 

" Love he had found in huts where poor men lie." 

The incident upon which this robust northern pastoral is built forms 
an important chapter in the history of the settlement of the region ; 
in the Antiquities of Furness it is related that when the Abbots of 
Furness enfranchised their villains they allowed the land to be divided 
into tenements, each of which was to furnish, in addition to the rent, 
one man armed for the king's service. By degrees the population 
crept toward the north. Later, when the Border Wars ceased, and 
the quota of armed men was no longer needed, the land passed into 
absolute ownership ; hence the attachment of these dalesmen, or 
statesmen, as they are called, to these hereditary estates, and the sac- 
rifices which they would undergo to avoid parting with them. Mr. 
Myers says of them that " they have afforded as near a realization as 
human fates would allow of the rural society which statesmen desire 
for their country's welfare." In " Michael " we have a portrait of one 
of these Westmoreland statesmen. 

The scene of this pastoral is Green-Head Ghyll, not far from Dove 
Cottage. Turning to the right from the highway by the " Swan Inn," 
and following the beck, one will, without much difficulty, find where 
the "Evening Star" was situated; and a little farther up the beck 
sheepfolds, which are now used. Probably Michael's fold was still 
higher up ; on the right of the beck there is a large oak-tree which 
may be the "Clipping tree." A visit to the Ghyll and the pasture 

23 



354 NOTES TO PAGES 82-105. 

land on the side of Fairfield is of great assistance to the appreciation 
of the spirit of the poem. 

It has been said that Wordsworth was an optimist, and this is true 
if by it is meant that he teaches us to transmute even an " agonizing 
sorrow " into a source of strength; this is an optimism which never 
attempts to solve the problem of suffering that is in no sense retribu- 
tive, but endeavors to present to us 

*' Soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering." 

In the matter of style this is the most perfect of all Wordsworth's nar- 
rative poems ; perhaps in no poem of his is there such complete subor- 
dination of language to the thought ; the two are related in such a 
way as to illustrate a style which conserves the mental economy of the 
reader. The theme and the language are equally simple ; there is no 
attempt to heighten the effect by artifices of " poetic diction." This be- 
ing so, what is there in the poem that renders it the delight of all who 
are familiar with it ? It is its sympathy, its sincerity, its vigor — that 
tone which comes from living and thinking close to the heart of things. 

Nature herself seems to take the pen out of his hand and to write 
for him with her bare, sheer, penetrating power. — Matthew Arnold. 

Emerson warns us against acquiring the false doctrine that there is 
anything else in style than the "transparent medium through which 
we should see new and good thoughts." 

See Wordsworth's letter to Thomas Poole, in vol. ii. of Thomas Poole 
and his Friends ; also Scott's Marniion, introduction to Canto iv. 
55-105- 

The Waterfall and the Eglantine. 

There are three roads from Grasmere to Rydal : one, a footpath 
under Nab Scar, which Dr. Arnold called " Old Corruption ; " a sec- 
ond over White-moss Common, which he called " Bit by Bit Reform ;" 
and a third, the coach-road by the lake-side, " Radical Reform." It 
is by the first of these roads that the scene of this poem is laid. Eg- 
lantines still grow there, though not abundantly. 

The Oak and the Broom. 

Suggested on the mountain pathway \Bit by Bit Refor7n\ The pon- 
derous block of stone which is mentioned in the poem remains, I be- 
lieve, to this day, a good way up Nab Scar. — W. W. 

The above note helps us to determine the locality. There is still 
a large stone far up on the side of the mountain, and it may be the 
" lofty stone " of this poem. 



NOTES TO PAGES 105,106. 355 

1801. 

This year the Exairsion was begun. 

The Sparrow's Nest. 

Written in the orchard, Town-End, Grasmere. At the end of the 
garden of my father's house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that 
commanded a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. 
This was my favorite playground. The terrace wall, a low one, 
was covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost 
impervious shelter to birds who built their nests there. The latter of 
these stanzas alludes to one of these nests. — W. W. 

Cockermouth, the birthplace of the Poet, is situated at the junction 
of the Cocker and the Derwent. It is an old market town and par- 
liamentary borough of Cumberland. The old manor house, with its 
garden and terrace in the rear, remains very much as it was in the 
Poet's time. The present owner, R. Mitchell, Jr., Esq., shows great 
kindness to all those who visit the place. 

Wordsworth lived at Cockermouth until the family was broken up 
by the death of his mother in 1778, when he and his brother went to 
Hawkshead to school, and Dorothy went to live with maternal rela- 
tives at Penrith. William and Dorothy were together but little after 
this, until that crisis of his life, and then by her ministrations she led 
him back — 

" To those sweet counsels between head and heart 

Whence grew that genuine knowledge fraught with peace." 

Cf. Prelude, i. 269 ; xi. 333. 

1802. 

Alice Fell. 

Written to gratify Mr. Graham, of Glasgow, brother of the author 
of The Sabbath. He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a 
man of ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and 
he urged me to put it into verse. — W. W. 

This was one of the poems which wzs game for the critics. It well 
illustrates Wordsworth's poetic creed. However far below his best 
work it maybe, it is a great advance upon that of the artificial school. 
All lovers of Wordsworth can afford to acknowledge that at times he 
worked his theory too hard, and that in his attempts to avoid artifi- 



356 NOTES TO PAGES 106-114. 

ciality he fell into versifying ; his instincts were correct, but his deduc- 
tions from them were at times faulty. We should not forget, however, 
that these lapses are a necessary feature of the man Wordsworth. 
See Preface to Matthew Arnold's Selections from Wordsworth. 

Beggars. 

Written at Town-End, Grasmere. Met and described to me by my 
sister near the quarry at the head of Rydal Lake — a place still a 
chosen resort of vagrants travelling with their families. — W. W. 

In this poem we have a realization of — 

" She gave me eyes, — she gave me ears." 

It was a singular coincidence when, in August, 1888, on passing the 
quarry and discussing this poem, we met a party of beggars. — Ed. 
Cf. Sequel, 1817. 

Written in March. 

Extempore. This little poem was a favorite of Joanna Baillie. — 
W. W. 

In Dorothy Wordsworth's diary is a beautiful description of the 
occasion of this poem ; it was a walk from Patterdale, over Kirkstone 
Pass to Ambleside : — 

" When we came to the foot of Brother's Water I left William sit- 
ting on the bridge, and went along the path on the right side of the 
lake through the wood. When I returned I found him writing a 
poem. . . . William finished his poem before we got to the foot of 
Kirkstone." 

" My Heart Leaps Up." 

Written at Town-End, Grasmere. — W. W. 

This poem is the key-note o£ all Wordsworth's poetry: it is the 
Prelude condensed into a lyric. 

The Redbreast Chasing the Butterfly. 

This and the two poems following were written in the orchard, 
Town-End, Grasmere. 

The second refers to Cockermouth, where the Poet and Emmeline 
(Dorothy) spent their childhood. 

See note to The Sparrow's Nest. 



NOTES TO PAGES 115-119. 357 

To the Small Celandine.^ 

Written at Town-End, Grasmere. It is remarkable that this flower, 
coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beauti- 
ful, and in such profusion, should not have been noticed earlier in 
English verse. What adds much to the interest that attends it is its 
habit of shutting itself up and opening out according to the degree of 
light and temperature of the air. — W. W. 

In Dorothy's Journal we have the following: — 

" We came into the orchard directly after breakfast, and sat there. 
The lake was calm, the sky cloudy. W. began to write the poem of 
the Celandine. ... I walked backward and forward with William. 
He repeated his poem to me." 

To the Same Flower. 

In Dorothy's Journal, May i, 1802, is the following: — 

" Wm. wrote the Celandine, second part." 

The buoyancy and vivacity, the spontaneity, grace, and harmony 
resulting from a perfect adaptation of the language to the idea^ render 
these poems the delight of all who joy in the life of Nature. Nature — 

'* Which never was the friend of one^ 
Nor promised love it could not give, 
But lit for all its generous sun. 
And lived itself and made us live." 

The Leech-Gatherer. 

Written at Town-End, Grasmere. This old man I met a few hun- 
dred yards from my cottage ; and the account of him is taken from 
his own mouth. I was in the state of feeling described in the begin- 
ning of the poem, while crossing over Barton Fell from Mr. Clark- 
son's at the foot of Ullswater, towards Askham. The image of the 
hare I then observed on the ridge of the Fell. — W. W. 

When Wm. and I returned from accompanying Jones, we met an 
old man almost double. . . . His trade was to gather leeches. ... It 
was late in the evening. — Jotirnal. 

We see from these notes that the elements which were gathered to- 
gether in this poem were from various sources. The mental mood 
and the " hare running races in her mirth " are brought from the walk 

1 Common Pile-wort. See Bryant's Frins^ed Gentian, Emerson's Rhodora, 
and Tennyson's Flower in the Cramiied Wall. 



358 NOTES TO PAGES 1 19-124. 

over Barton Fell. The "lonely moor" with the "pool" is White 
Moss Common, which one crosses by the middle road to Rydal. 

After the storm and the tumult of Nature — "the roaring of the 
wind," and the driving of the floods — there came the calm, the 
singing of the birds, the music of the becks, the fresh, clear atmos- 
phere, and " the hare running races." One would think that — 

" A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company." 

A kindred mood is awakened in the Poet, but it is soon beclouded 
with " fears and fancies " which arise from the contrast existing be- 
tween the free, happy, careless life of all the unoffending creatures of 
God's love, and the life of man, burdened with care for the morrow, 
obliged to sow before he can reap, "looking before and after." 
Strong as he is, he is nevertheless made weak by such dejection ; and 
in this weakness there appears the figure of an old man, by conversa- 
tion with whom strength is imparted, power is given, a new motive 
for living is supplied, life is made a happier and a diviner thing. 

As to style, we might almost say there is none. By the simplest 
language, in the absence of all color, with no complexity of incident, 
we have one of the most harmonious and determined of sketches, — 
the beauty and the strength of repose. 

In its ethical bearing the poem makes common cause with all of 
the Poet's best work, the message of which is — " Waste not ! " That 
Wordsworth's philosophy in this respect is not theoretical but practi- 
cal, we will let one who has made trial of it testify. 

John Stuart Mill, in a time of disappointment at the failure of cher- 
ished hopes, and when life seemed nothing but a struggle against cruel 
necessity, went to Wordsworth's poetry, and of the result says : — 

" What made Wordsworth's poems a medicine for my state of 
mind, was that they expressed, not mere outward beauty, but states 
of feeling, under the excitement of beauty. They seemed to be the 
very culture of the feelings which I was in quest of. In them I 
seemed to draw from a source of inward joy, of sympathetic and im- 
a.2;inative pleasure, which could be shared in by all human beings, 
which had no connection with struggle or imperfection, but would be 
made richer by every improvement in the physical or social condition 
of mankind. From them I seemed to learn what would be the peren- 
nial sources of happiness, when all the greater evils of life shall have 
been removed. And I felt myself at once better and happier as I 
came under their influence." 



NOTES TO PAGES 125-130. 359 

A Farewell. 

Composed just before my sister and I went to fetch Mrs. Words- 
worth from Gallow-hill, near Scarborough. — W. W. 

The local allusions in this poem are to Dove Cottage and its sur- 
roundings. See On N'atures Invitatioti do I Cotne. 

In 1802 the Earl of Lonsdale died. He had refused to repay the 
Wordsworth family the money which had been borrowed from their 
father ; his successor at once discharged the debt with interest. By 
this Wordsworth and his sister received £1,^00 each. With this ad- 
dition to the Poet's income, he was enabled to marry Mary Hutchin- 
son, with whom he had been at school at Penrith, and who had been 
the long-time friend of himself and his sister Dorothy, He was mar- 
ried on Oct. 4, 1802, at Brompton Church near Scarborough, and they 
returned to Grasmere on the evening of the 6th. See She Was a 
Phatttom of Delight, To Mary Wordsworth, Afterthought, Prelude, 
xiv. 266-275. 

55, 56. Cf. The Sparrow's Nest. 

Stanzas Written in Thomson's Castle of Indolence. 

Composed in the orchard, Town-End, Grasmere, Coleridge living 
with us much at this time ; his son Hartley has said that his father's 
character and habits are here preserved in a livelier way than in any- 
thing that has been written about him. — W. W. 

The characters alluded to in the poem are Wordsworth and Cole- 
ridge ; there is some difficulty, however, in assigning the stanzas. The 
editor of the Memoirs concludes that the allusions in the first four 
stanzas are to Wordsworth, and those in the last three to Coleridge. 
Professor Dowden thinks that Coleridge is referred to in the first, 
and William Calvert in the last verses. There is much to sustain this 
idea. Mr. Ainger says that Wordsworth here describes Coleridge 
and Thomas Poole. 

"The Sun has Long been Set." 

This impromptu appeared many years ago, among the author's 
poems, from which, in subsequent editions, it was excluded. It is re- 
printed at the request of the Friend m whose presence the lines were 
thrown off. — W. W. 

The Friend alluded to was his sister. 



360 NOTES TO PAGES 131, 132. 

To H. C. 

Hartley Coleridge, the eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
This poem was singularly prophetic of that life of dreamy wayward- 
ness, of lonely wanderings, of lofty hopes and deep despair. 

The gift of continuous conversation which distinguished his father 
was his no less, and it won for him hosts of friends. The following 
sonnet of his supplements Wordsworth's poem : — 
*•' Long time a child, and still a child when years 

Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I : 

For yet I lived like one not born to die, 

A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears ; 

No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. 

But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep ; and waking, 

I waked to sleep no more, at once o'ertaking 

The vanguard of my age, with all arrears 

Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man. 

Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray, 

For I have lost the race I never ran ; 

A rathe December blights my lagging May; 

And still I am a child, the' I be old ; 

Time is my debtor for my years untold." 

His body lies in Grasmere Church-yard, near that of his friend and 
benefactor, Vv ordsworth. 

Nab Cottage, where Hartley lived and died, is on the coachroad from 
Rydal to Grasmere, and faces Rydal Water. It is now a favorite lodg- 
ing house in the Lake District. The following lines on Nab Cottage 
are from a sonnet by H. D. Rawnsley : — 

" Unchanged the scene, and still the sycamore 
Flutters its seed-wings to the Poet's door ; 
But those gay flowers, whose garden home he planned, 
Have strayed abroad to please the wand'rer's hand : 
How like himself, the Muse's delicate child, 
Whose life was of the wind, rejoicing to be wild." 
See Hartley Coleridge's Sonnet on Wordsworth. 

To the Daisy. 

This and the other poems addressed to the same flower were com- 
posed at Town-End, Grasmere, during the earlier part of my residence 
there. . . . The last two were overflowings of the same mood. — W. W. 

The product of Wordsworth's impassioned and illumined gaze which 
we have in these three poems shows us in what special sense he was 



NOTES TO PAGES 132-139. 361 

the poet of Nature. His imagination is both creative and perceptive, 
and is the result of habitual communion with Nature, and constant 
reflection upon her impressions. He comes to her as a priest to 
whom she would confide her secrets ; his communion is holy, and 
hence he inspires his disciples with an enthusiasm which is calm and 
deep, rather than tumultuous. 

Although English literature is not wanting in admirable descrip- 
tions of Nature, yet the idea of Nature as having " a function apostoli- 
cal," as ministering both to moral and to spiritual power — to console, 
inspire, reward, and recreate — does not appear in poetry prior to this 
time; hot even in Scotland, where the love of Nature was wellnigh 
universal. The view of Nature as organically agreeable and as tend- 
ing to physical comfort was then prevalent ; the idea of Nature as 
furnishing helps to a pure contemplative pleasure which is above mere 
sensation was almost unknown. Wordsworth's method does not fur- 
ther the spirit that would " peep and botanize," but that which would 
" see into the life of things." 

The maxims of Wordsworth's form of natural religion were uttered 
before Wordsworth only in the sense in which the maxims of Christi- 
anity were uttered before Christ. — F. W. Myers. 

To Shelley a flower is a thing of light and of love, — bright with its 
yearning, pale with its passion. To Thomson a flower is an object 
which has a certain shape and color. To Wordsworth a flower is a 
living partaker of the common spiritual life and joy of being. — 
DOWDEN. 

1803. 

The Green Linnet. 

Composed in the orchard, Town-End, Grasmere, where the bird was 
often seen as here described. — W. W. 

The " orchard seat " was upon the terrace at the rear of the garden, 
and was reached by stone steps cut by the Poet himself. At the 
present time an arbor stands there. 

In none of the Lyrics is there to be found such natural magic, such 
felicity of interpretation, such complete abandonment of all the facul- 
ties in the thrill of the soul entering into the life of Nature. In all 
respects this exquisite poem conforms to Milton's canon — 

*' Simple, sensuous, impassioned." 
When a poet can interpret by "natural magic," as here, and by 
"moral profundity," as in Tintern Abbey, he performs for us the high- 



362 NOTES TO PAGES 139, 140. 

est and holiest service which is ever in the power of man to perform. 
For — 

" With an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony and the deep power of joy, 

We see into the Hfe of things." 

Coleridge, in his Biographia Literaria, chap, xxii., cites this poem as 
an illustration of " The perfect truth of Nature in his [Wordsworth's] 
images and descriptions as taken immediately from Nature, and prov- 
ing a long and genial intimacy with the very spirit which gives the 
physiognomic expression to all the works of Nature." 

Yew-Trees. 

Written at Grasmere. In no part of England, or of Europe, have 
I ever seen a yew-tree at all approaching this in magnitude. — W. W. 
At this time Wordsworth was at work upon the Prelude and the 
Excursion. The one — 

" An Orphic song indeed, — 
A song divine, of high and passionate thoughts, 
To their own music chanted." 

The other the spousal hymn for the 

" Discerning intellect of man 
When wedded to this goodly universe 
In love and h61y passion." 

The result of this union, this commerce of the mind of man and the 
external world, was such an ideal creation as we have here : ideal 
and yet true, for the outcome of the " light " and the "gleam" of 
poetic imagination is not fancy, but truth. Its revelation is of essen- 
tial, not of accidental, relations. 

Professor Shairp, in alluding to the natural idealism of Wordsworth, 
says : " In this, I conceive, lies his transcendent power, that the ideal 
light he sheds is a true light ; and the more ideal it is, the more 
true." 

Coleridge, in challenging for Wordsworth the gift of imagination 
(and citing this poem), says : " In imaginative power he stands nearest 
of all modern writers to Shakespeare and Milton, and yet in kind per- 
fectly unborrowed and his own." 

Ruskin, alluding to this poem, in Modern Painters^ says : " I consider 
it the most vigorous and solemn bit of forest landscape ever painted." 

The " Pride of Lorton Vale " has lost its beauty and its grandeur, 
and in 1883 the " Fraternal Four " were visited by a whirlwind 



NOTES TO PAGES 140,141. 363 

which uprooted and despoile*d them. The largest yews in the district 
are now those of Yevvdale. See Prelude, i. 306. 

The following sonnet by H, D. Rawnsley is the third in his trilogy 
on the Yews of Borrowdale : — 

" 111 could we spare the tree St. Patrick knew.' 
When first for Christ to these rude vales he spoke; 
And better far had fallen the Rydal Oak,2 
Or — Time's vast hollow monument — the Yew 3 
Which stands in sight of Wetherlam : Ah, few 
The souls who then had felt that tempest's stroke, 
So many bonds about the heart had broke, 
And breaking, swept old memories from view. 
For to this grove, by storm in ruins hurled, 
Had Glaramara down the centuries seen 
Hope and mute Prayer and Love and Mystery throng ; 
And since our Wordsworth murmured out his song, 
Its dark four-pillared vault of evergreen 
Was Temple for the music of the world." 

One of the most marked features of Wordsworth's poetry shown in 
the closing verses of this poem, is due to his exquisite sensibility to 
sound: he seems to have possessed, together with "an eye practised 
like a blind man's touch," the " inevitable ear." Those recollections 
in tranquillity which are the fundamental processes of his mind are as 
often directed to the reproduction of sounds as of sights ; and in his 
study of Nature "to lie and listen" was as essential as to look abroad 
and gaze. One of the most touching of these allusions is in the 
Brothers : — 

" Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
Of caves and trees." 

Memorials of a Tour in Scotland. 

The year 1803 was made memorable by the visit of the Poet, his 
sister, and Coleridge, to Scotland. He had been born and reared in 
sight of "the land of song," yet not until this year had he set foot 
upon her soil. Dorothy's Journal is a record of this journey, and is 
hardly less poetical than the immortal poems. In visiting Scotland 
in 1S87, I found the Journal the best guide to these localities. 

1 The Patterdale Yew, — destroyed in the same storm. 

2 In the grounds of Rydal are some of the oldest forest-trees. 
^ The Great Yew of Yewdale. 



364 NOTES TO PAGES 141-147. 

At the Grave of Burns. 

The party left Keswick on Monday morning, August 15, and reached 
Dumfries on the evening of the 17th. Under date of Thursday, the 
i8th, Dorothy wrote : " Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried. 
. . . He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his son Francis Wal- 
lace beside him. . . . We looked at the grave with melancholy and 
painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses : — 

* Is there a man whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs himself life's mad career 

Wild as the wave ? — 
Here let him pause and through a tear 
Survey this grave.' " 

Thoughts suggested the Day Follov\^ing On the Banks of the Nith. 

The Journal continues : — 

** We were glad to leave Dumfries, which is no agreeable place to 
them who do not love the bustle of a town which seems to be rising 
up to wealth. In our road to Brownhill we passed Ell island at a 
little distance on our right. , . . Travelled through the vale of Nith, 
here little like a vale it is so broad, with irregular hills rising up on 
each side. . . . Left the Nith about a mile and a half and reached 
Brownhill, a lonely inn." 

To the Sons of Burns. 

" I cannot take leave of the country which we passed through to- 
day (iSth) without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland Mountains. 
. . . Drayton has prettily described the connection which this neigh- 
borhood has with ours when he makes Skiddaw say : — 

' Scurfree,! from the sky, 
That Anadale2 doth crown with a most amorous eye, 
Salutes me every day.' 

These lines occurred to William's memory, and we talked of Burns 
and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of 
Skiddaw and his companions. . . . We talked of Coleridge's children 
and family, then at the foot of Skiddaw, and our own new-born John 
a few miles behind it, while at the grave of Burns's son, which we 
had just seen by the side of his father ; and some stories heard at 

1 Criffel. 2 Annandale. 



NOTES TO PAGES 147-149. 365 

Dumfries respecting the dangers his surviving children were exposed 
to filled us with a melancholy concern which had a kind of connection 
with ourselves. In recollection of this William long afterwards wrote 
the following address to the sons of the ill-fated poet. — Journal. 

What could be more fitting than that the first-fruits of this visit to 
Scotland should be dedicated to the memory of that poet who had 
taught Wordsworth 

" How verse may build a princely throne 
On humble truth " ? 

These poems written in Burns's favorite metre are the finest tribute 
ever paid to that " darling of the Muses." 

To a Highland Girl. 

The tourists had the usual experience with Scottish weather, and 
when they left Loch Kettrine for Loch Lomond it rained almost con- 
tinually ; the Journal for the 28th has the following ; — 

" When beginning to descend the hill toward Loch Lomond we over- 
took two girls, who told us we could not cross the ferry until evening, 
for the boat was gone with a number of people to church. One of 
the girls was exceedingly beautiful: and the figures of both of them, 
in gray plaids falling to their feet, their faces only being uncovered, 
excited our attention before we spoke to them. I think I never heard 
the English language sound more sweetly than from the mouth of the 
elder of these girls, as she stood at the gate answering our inquiries, 
her face flushed with the rain." They waited at the ferry-house until 
the return of the boat in the afternoon, when they crossed and walked 
to Tarbet. Long after his return Wordsworth wrote this poem in 
recollection of the experience at the ferry-house. 

In the Fenwick note to this poem Wordsworth says : "The sort 
of prophecy with which the verses conclude has, through God's good- 
ness, been realized; and now approaching the close of my seventy- 
third year I have a most vivid remembrance of her and the beautiful 
objects with which she was surrounded." 

It is in such poems as this that we see illustrated what Mr. Bagehot 
calls the/?/;r, as distinguished from the ornate, in poetic st3de. The 
pure style depends for its efficacy upon penetrating at once to the 
heart of scene or character, and using only such accessories of im- 
agery and dress as are essential to a grasp of the spirit of the whole; 
while the ornate depends upon the number of striking allusions, the 
wealth of figure, and abundance of drapery. By most readers, per- 



3^6 NOTES TO PAGES 149-154. 

haps, the ornate style is preferred, because it ministers to their love 
of mannerism, artificiality, and display ; so that, as Mr. Bagehot says, 
" A dressy literature, an exaggerated literature, seem to be fated to 
us. These are our curses, as other times had theirs." 

That the influence of Wordsworth, wherever it has free course, is 
powerful in eliminating this vicious tendency, is the testimony of all 
who come under his power. To intrust the young to the guardian- 
ship of this " Friend of the wise and teacher of the good " is to put 
them in possession of a source of health and happiness which will 
prove inexhaustible. See Hudson's Studies in Wordsworth, p. 22. 

" The first step towards a revolution in our state of society," says 
Emerson, " would be to impress men's minds with the fact that the 
purest pleasures of life are at hand unknown to them." 

See Emerson in Concord. 

Address to Kilchurn Castle. 

Not long after leaving Loch Lomond, Coleridge parted with the 
Wordsworths, and they passed on to Inverary and by Loch Awe to 
Dalmally. 

The first three lines were impromptu., and the rest written a long 
time after. Not far from the spot where Wordsworth poured out these 
verses is now to be seen a monument of rude unhewn stones cemented 
together. This monument has been erected to the memory of Dun- 
can Maclntyre, the Bard of Glenorchy — Fair Duncan of the Songs. 
He lived on the lands of the Earl of Breadalbane, by whose family 
Kilchurn Castle had been built. 

See Shairp's Aspects of Poetry, chap. x. 

43. The tradition is that the Castle was built by a Lady during the 
absence of her Lord in Palestine. 

This piece is, to me, one of the author's grandest displays of im- 
aginative power; hardly inferior to the Yew-trees. — Hudson. 

GlenAlmain. 

On leaving Dunkeld for Callander they concluded to go by Crieff, 
as the " Sma' Glen " would be on their way. 

September 9. We entered the glen at a small hamlet at some dis- 
tance from the head, and turning aside a few steps ascended a hillock 
which commanded a view to the top of it, — a very sweet scene, a green 
valley, not very narrow, with a few scattered trees and huts, almost 
invisible in a misty gleam of afternoon light. At this hamlet we 
crossed a bridge, and a road led us down the glen, which had become 



NOTES TO PAGES 154-156. 367 

exceedingly narrow, and so continued to the end : the hills on both 
sides heathy and rocky, very steep, but continuous ; there are no trees, 
no houses, no traces of civilization, not one outstanding object. It is 
truly a solitude. The following poem was written by William on 
hearing a tradition relating to it. — Joiimal. 

Dorothy gives us the physical features of the place, while in the 
poem we have the moral emotion which the scene awakens • each 
is the counterpart of the other. A close study of the work of the 
" Sister " will reveal the truth of the lines, — 

" She gave me eyes, she gave me ears." 

Stepping Westward. 

From Callander they went to Loch Kettrine, revisiting the Tros- 
sachs, of which Dorothy writes : " I can add nothing to my former 
description of the Trossachs, except that we departed with our old 
delightful remembrances endeared, and many new ones." Passing on 
to the head of Loch Kettrine, she continues : " We have never had a 
more delightful walk than this evening. Ben Lomond and the three 
pointed-topped mountains of Loch Lomond were very majestic under 
the clear sky, the lake perfectly calm, and the air sweet and mild. 
The sun had been set for some time, when our path having led us 
close to the shore of the calm lake, we met two neatly dressed 
women, without hats, who had probably been taking their Sunday 
evening's walk. One of them said to me in a friendly, soft tone of 
voice, 'What! are you stepping westward?' I cannot describe how 
affecting this simple expression was in that remote place, with the 
western sky in front, yet glowing with the departing sun. William 
wrote the following poem long after, in remembrance of his feelings 
and mine." 

In making the accidental interrogation reveal the soul of the scene, 
while being itself exalted by it, Wordsworth transfigures the whole. 
By his wonderful aptness in selecting the points of vantage, and by 
his conciseness, he i:iroduces the maximum of power. 

The Solitary Reaper. 

Having crossed Loch Lomond they continued their journey through 
Glenfalloch and Glengyle, along the side of Loch Voil between the 
braes of Balquidder and Stratheyer, and returned to Callander. Of 
the scenery by Loch Voil Dorothy says : " As we descended, the scene 
became more fertile, our way being pleasantly varied, — through cop- 



368 NOTES TO PAGES 156-158. 

pice or open fields, and passing farm-houses, though always with an 
intermixture of uncultivated ground. It was harvest-time, and the 
fields were quietly — might I say pensively .'' — enlivened by small com- 
panies of reapers. It is not uncommon in the more lonely parts of 
the Highlands to see a single person so employed. The following 
poem was suggested to William by a beautiful sentence in Thomas 
Wilkinson's Tour in Scotland." 

What poet ever produced such beauty and power with so simple 
materials! The maiden, the latest lingerer in the field, is the medium 
through which the romance of Highland scenery, and the soul of soli- 
tary Highland life is revealed to us; even her voice seems a part of 
Nature, so mysteriously does it blend with the beauty of the scene. 
It is to such influences as this that the Poet refers in the lines, — 

" And impulses of deeper birth 
Have come to him in solitude." 

In solitude were these poems conceived, and in solitude only can 
they be fully appreciated. 

Yarrow Unvisited. 

On returning from the Highlands they spent a day in Edinburgh 
and then went to Roslin. On the morning of September 17 they 
walked toLasswade, and met, for the first time, Walter Scott, who was 
living there. In the afternoon Scott accompanied them to Roslin and 
left them with the promise to meet them at Melrose two days after. 
Passing on to Peebles they travelled down the Tweed, past Neid- 
path Castle. (See Sonnet, De^i^enerate Douglas.) 

The Journ^il has the following : " September 18. We left the Tweed 
when we were within about a mile and a half or two miles of Cloven- 
ford, where we were to lodge. Turned up the side of a hill and went 
along the sheep-grounds till we reached the spot, — a single stone 
house. On our mentioning Mr. Scott's name the woman of the house 
showed us all possible civility. Mr. Scott is respected everywhere ; I 
believe that by favor of his name one might be hospitably entertained 
throughout all the borders of Scotland. 

" At Clovenford, being so near to Yarrow, we could not but think of 
the possibility of going thither, but came to the conclusion of reserv- 
ing the pleasure for some future time, in consequence of which, after 
our return, William wrote the poem which I shall here transcribe." 

The three poems upon the Yarrow, written in the metre of the old 



NOTES TO PAGES 158-163. 369 

Yarrow ballads, should be read as a trilogy, and the Poet's earlier 
and later styles compared. 

In the blending of thought with sensation and emotion Wordsworth 
resembles Shakespeare ; while in respect of spiritual thrift, as when 
in the apparent indifference to the wishes of his companion he prefers 
to abide in the wealth of anticipation, we have a trait which is dis- 
tinctly Wordsworthian. 

He hoarded his joys and lived upon the interest which they paid in 
the form of hope and expectation. — R. H. Hutton. 

35. Cf. Hamilton's Ballad, The Braes of Yai-rcw, 1. 50. 

The Matron of Jedborough and Her Husband. 

After leaving Clovenford they proceeded to Gala Water and on to 
Melrose, where they were met by Scott, who conducted them to the Ab- 
bey. The next day they went to Jedborough, where Scott, as " Shirra,'* 
was attending the Assizes. The inns being full, they secured lodg- 
ings in a private house. The Journal continues : " We were received 
with hearty welcome by a good woman who though above seventy 
years old moved about as briskly as if she were only seventeen. The 
alacrity with which she guessed at and strove to prevent our wants 
was surprising. Her husband was deaf and infirm, and sat in a 
chair with scarcely the power to move a limb, — an affecting contrast! 
The old woman said they had been a very hard-working pair; they 
had wrought like slaves at their trade, — her husband had been a cur- 
rier ; she told me they had portioned off their daughters with money, 
and each a feather bed. 

" Mr. Scott sat with us an hour or two, and repeated a part of the 
Lay of the Last Minstrel. When he was gone, our hostess came to 
see if we wanted anything, and to wish us good-night. William long 
afterward thought it worth while to express in verse the sensations 
which she had excited." 

This poem exhibits Wordsworth's habit of finding 
" Tongues in trees, books in the runninjr brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in everything." 

On Approaching Home. 

This was composed the last day of our Tour, between Dalston and 
Grasmere. — W. W. 

The next day, Scott being busy at the coyrts, William Laidlaw, who 
lived in the dale of Yarrow, and who had been delighted with some 

24 



370 NOTES TO PAGES 163-166. 

of Wordsworth's poems, accompanied them to the vale of Jed. Doro- 
thy says of him: " At first meeting he was as shy as any of our Gras- 
mere lads, and not less rustic." On the following day Scott was glad 
to leave the Judge and his retinue and travel with them through the 
vale of Teviot to Hawick, from which place they had an extensive 
view of the Cheviot Hills. Here they were- obliged to part, as Scott 
had to return to his duties. Two days later the Journal has the fol- 
lowing : "Arrived home between eight and nine o'clock, where we 
found Mary in perfect health, Joanna Hutchinson with her, and 
little John asleep in the clothes-basket by the fire." 



1804. 

This year much of the Prelude was written. 

To the Cuckoo. 
Composed in the orchard at Town-End, Grasmere, 1804. — W. W. 
Of all Wordsworth's illustrations of the effect of sound upon the 
spiritual nature this is the finest. " Of all his poems," Mr. Hutton 
says, " the Cuckoo is Wordsworth's own darling." Early in life he 
had a firm assurance that the life of the soul was more real than the 
external world; in the Prelude, Bk. ii., referring to his school-days he 
says — 

" How shall I seek the origin ? Where find 
Faith in the marvellous things whi'ch then I felt? 
Oft in these moments such a holy calm 
Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes 
Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw 
Appeared like something in myself, a dream, 
A prospect in the mind." 

It is this which makes Wordsworth, as Dr. Hudson says, the most 
spiritual and spiritualizing of all the English poets. 

"She Was a Phantom of Delight." 

Written at Town-End, Grasmere. The germ of this poem was four 
lines composed as apart of the verses on the Highland Girl. Though 
beginning in this way, it was written from my heart, as is sufiiciently 
obvious. — W. W. 

That so trivial an incident as the meeting of this Highland maid 
should have been thus cl^erished by the Poet, and reproduced here, 
and in the Three Cottage Girls, written nearly twenty years after, shows 



NOTES TO PAGES 166-16S. 371 

us how he valued his experiences, and what use he made of them. 
"The portraiture of woman," said Coleridge, "should be character- 
less," meaning that the chief excellence is a well-balanced nature. 

In this exquisite portrait of womanly beauty we have, not that which 
is the specialty of any one, but that which is the characteristic of all 
true womanly nature. '' Exqicisite rightness," Ruskin says, "distin- 
guished the author of this poem." It is hardly necessary to say that 
the subject of the poem is Mrs. Wordsworth. Allusions are also made 
to her in the Prelude, Bk. vi. 224 ; xii. 151 ; xiv. 266; and in O dearer 
far than light and life are dear { 1824J. 

The Daffodils. 

Town-End, 1804. The two best lines in it are by Mary. — W. W. 

The incident upon which this poem was founded occurred during 
a walk in Patterdale. Miss Wordsworth's Journal says : " When we 
were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils 
close to the water-side. We fancied that the sea had floated the seeds 
ashore, and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as we went 
along there were more, and yet more ; and at last under the boughs 
of the trees we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore. 
... I never saw daffodils so beautiful . . . they tossed and reeled 
and danced as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon 
them over the lake." 

How truly does Wordsworth here illustrate his doctrine that the 
origin of poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity! He is con- 
tinually opening to us hidden springs of joy, and teaching that life 
will be serene and bright if kept pure by the holy forms of young 
imagination. 

The violet by its mossy stone, 
The primrose by the river's brim, 
And chance-sown daffodils have found 
Immortal life through him. 

Wordsworth, by J. G. Whittier. 

2T, 22. These lines were suggested by Mrs. Wordsworth. Daffo- 
dils still grow abundantly about Ullswater. 

The Affliction of Margaret. 

Written at Town-End, Grasmere. This was taken from the case of 
a poor widow who lived in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was 



372 A'OTES TO PAGES 16S-174. 

well known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my sister, and, I believe, to the 
whole town. She kept a shop, and when she saw a stranger passing 
by, she was in the habit of going out into the street to inquire of him 
after her son. — W. W. 

No poet could have drawn this portrait until he had lived close to 
the realities of the humblest lives. As an old dalesman has said, " He 
was a kind mon, there 's no two words about that ; if any one was 
sick i' the pjaace he wad be off to see til 'em." Thus it was that he 
entered into the mystery of suffering, and became — 

" Convinced at lieart, how vain 
A correspondence with the talking world 
Proves to the most." 

This is a companion picture to the Story of Margaret in the Exacr- 
sion, the purpose of both being to awaken in us a responsive chord 
to the sufferings of those about us, — in a word, to further the culture 
of the finer feelings. 

"Others will teach us how to dare 
And against fear our breast to steel ; 
Others will strengthen us to bear ; 
But who, ah ! who will make us/^^/?" 

See Mr. Myers's analysis of this poem in Wordsworth, English Men 
of Letters. 

Address to My Infant Daughter Dora. 

Of Wordsworth's strong and deep love for his children we have 
frequent evidence in his poems. For Dora he seems to have had the 
most intense affection, loving her as his own soul. T/ie Longest Day, 
written in 181 7, is addressed to her. After the sad illness of the Dear 
Sister, Dora became his comforter and stay, and occupied in his later 
life the same position which Dorothy had in his earlier. So depend- 
.ent upon her did he become, that her marriage was a severe trial for 
him ; and when, in 1847, death came to her, Sir flenry Taylor says : 
" A silence as of death fell upon him. ... I believe his genius never 
again broke into song." 

The Small Celandine. 
See pp. 1 1 5-1 19 and notes. 



NOTES TO PAGES 175-177. 373 

1805. 

This year the Prelude was completed. 
Ode to Duty. 

This Ode is on the model of Gray's Ode to Adversity, which is copied 
from Horace's Ode to Fortune. Many and many a time have I been 
twitted by my wife and sister for having forgotten this dedication of 
myself to the stern law-giver. Transgressor indeed I have been from 
hour to hour, from day to day; I would fain hope, however, not more 
flagrantly, or in a worse way than most of my tuneful brethren. But 
these last words are in a wrong strain. We would be rigorous to 
ourselves, and forbearing, if not indulgent, to others ; and if we make 
comparison at all, it ought to be with those who have morally ex- 
celled us.— W. W. 

We have here the essential and eternal distinction between the 
ethics of cold abstinence and of warm sympathy. " I'hou shalt not " 
gives place to the " Thou shalt ; " love, not fear, is the impelling mo- 
tive to righteousness. A man's worth to God measures his real worth, 
"there is no shuffling there; there offence's gilded hand" cannot 
" shove by justice." 

In Wordsworth's ideal of human life the " genial sense of youth " 
is strengthened and confirmed by mature reason ; the truths of early 
intuitions become the fixed principles of later life. Says Dr. Hud- 
son : " Man's ripest wisdom does its best, when it draws him back to 
the purity and whiteness of the nursery." 

Wordsworth teaches that there is a noble bondage — a " manly 
dependence ; " that freedom rightly understood is unlimited license 
— to do good, and that duty dignifies and ennobles life. It is at this 
point that the influence of his poetry makes common cause with the 
spirit of Christianity ; the work of the true poet and the true preacher 
is one, as seen in the history of the nineteenth century; men have 
gone to Wordsworth and Newman, Coleridge and Robertson, Carlyle 
and Maurice, Stanley and Browning, for moral quickening. 

I would rather a child of mine should know and feel the high, im- 
aginative teachings of Wordsworth's Ode to Duty, than any piece of 
uninspired prose morality in the language. — Prof. Henry Reed. 

Cf . Clough's Hope Evermore and Believe. 

To a Skylark. 
Of all Wordsworth's poems this seems the most inevitable ; it is as 
spontaneous as the lark's own song. The idea that the life of Nature 



374 NOTES TO PAGES 177-184. 

is one of enjoyment, of love and praise to the Almighty Giver, charac- 
terizes that spirit of religious awe in which the Poet always walked 
with Nature. The beauty of all such work as this consists in its deep 
poetic rapture, and its high moral purpose, yet free from any taint of 
didacticism. He looks upon Nature with the eye of the Psalmist and 
sings his Master's praise. 

" Only that is poetry," says Emerson, " which cleanses and mans 
me." 

See Shelley's To a Skylark. 

Fidelity. 
" The young man whose death gave occasion to this poem was 
named Charles Gough, and had come early in the spring to Patterdale 
for the sake of angling While attempting to cross over Helvellyn 
to Grasmere, he slipped from a steep part of the rock where the ice 
was not thawed, and perished. His body was discovered as described 
in this poem. Walter Scott heard of the accident, and both he and I, 
without either of us knowing that the other had taken up the subject, 
each wrote a poem in admiration of the dog's fidelity. His contains 
a most beautiful stanza : — 

" How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? 
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start .-' " — W. W. 

The traveller who ascends Helvellyn and wishes to go to Patterdale, 
by passing along Striding Edge will see the monument erected there 
to commemorate this act. 

See Lockhart's Life of Scott, ed. 187 1. 

Incident Characteristic of a Favorite Dog. 

This dog I knew well. It belonged to Mrs. Wordsworth's brother. 
-W. W. 

Tribute to the Memory of the Same Dog. 

The dog " Music " died, aged and blind, by falling into a draw-well 
atGallowHill. — W. W. 

"When to the Attractions of a Busy World." 
The grove was a favorite haunt with us all, while we lived at Town- 
End.— W. W. 

In the year 1800 the brothers spent eight months together at the 
Grasmere home; they had seen but little of each other since child- 
hood, and at this time the Poet found in his brother an intense and 



NOTES TO PAGES 184-188. 375 

delicate appreciation of his poetry. In the Fir Grove, now called 
Johii's Grove, they spent many hours discussing what would be the 
future of the Lyrical Ballads ; John Wordsworth confidently believed 
that they would in time become appreciated, and hence he determined 
to assist his "brother in all possible ways. As captain of a merchant 
vessel he had acquired some means, and he looked forward to the 
time when he could settle at Grasmere, and enjoy the home in com- 
pany with Dorothy and William. 

The fir-grove is not far from the Wishing-Gate on the road over 
White Moss Common toward Rydal. It is one of the most interest- 
ing of the localities connected with the Poet and his brother. 

Cf. Prelude, vii. 43. 

Stanzas on Peele Castle- 
When in September, 1800, John left Grasmere, the brother and sister 
accompanied him as far as Grisedale Tarn, on the way to Patterdale. 
They then little thought it was to be his farewell to Grasmere, but so 
it proved. Soon he was appointed captain of the " Abergavenny," an 
East Indiaman ; and on Feb. 5, 1S05, when setting sail from Ports- 
mouth, through the incompetence of the pilot, she struck the reefs of 
the Bill of Po7-tland, and was lost. Wordsworth says : — 

" A few minutes before the ship went down my brother was seen 
talking to the first mate with apparent cheerfulness ; he was standing 
at a point where he could overlook the whole ship the moment she 
went down, — dying, as he had lived, in the very place and point where 
his duty called him." 

The Poet soon after composed the following verses near the parting 
place at the foot of Grisedale Tarn : — 

" The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo ! 
That instant, startled by the shock. 
The Buzzard mounted from the rock 
Deliberate and slow : 
Lord of the air, he took his flight ; 
Oh ! could he on that woeful night 
Have lent his wing, my Brother dear. 
For one poor moment's space to Thee, 
And all who struggled with the Sea, 
When safety was so near ! W 

" Thus in the weakness of my heart 
I spoke (but let that pang be still) 
When rising from the rock at will, 
I saw the Bird depart. 



3 7^ NOTES TO PAGES 18S-193. 

And let me calmly bless the Power 
That meets me in this unknown Flower, 
Affecting type of him I mourn ! 
With calmness suffer and believe, 
And grieve, and know that 1 must grieve, 
Not cheerless, though forlorn. 

" Here did we stop ; and here looked round 
While each into himself descends. 
For that last thought of parting Friends 
That is not to be found. 
Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, 
Our home and his, his heart's dehght, 
His quiet heart's selected home. 
But time before him melts away, 
And he hath feeling of a day 
Of blessedness to come. 

" Full soon in sorrow did 1 weep, 
Taught that the mutual hope was dust, 
In sorrow, but for higher trust, 
How miserably deep ! 
All vanished in a single word, 
A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard ; 
Sea — Ship — drowned — Shipwreck — so it came, 
The meek, the brave, the good, was gone ; 
He who had been our living John 
Was nothing but a name. 

" That was indeed a parting ! oh, 
Glad am I, glad that it is past ; 
For there were some on whom it cast 
Unutterable woe. 

But they as well as I have gains; — 
From many a humble source, to pains 
Like these, there comes a mild release ; 
Even here I feel it, even this Plant 
Is in its beauty ministrant 
To comfort and to peace. 

*' He would have loved thy modest grace, 
Meek Flower ! To Him I would have said, 
' It grows upon its native bed 
Beside our Parting-place ; 
There, cleaving to the ground it lies, 
With multitude of purple eyes, 



NOTES TO PAGES 188-193. 377 

* Spangling a cushion green like moss ; 

But we will see it, joyful tide ! 
Some day, to see it in its pride, 
The mountain will we cross.' 60 

" — Brother and friend, if verse of mine 
Have power to make thy virtues known, 
Here let a Monumental Stone 
Stand — sacred as a Shrine ; 
And to the few who pass this way, 
Traveller or Shepherd, let it say, 
Long as these mighty rocks endure, — 
Oh, do not thou too fondly brood, 
Although deserving of all good. 
On any earthly hope, however pure ! " 70 

In execution of the Poet's wish, — 

" Here let a Monumental Stone 
Stand — sacred as a Shrine," — 

the Wordsworth Society has caused lines 21-24, 61-64 of this poem to 
be engraved upon a stone near the tarn. 

In 1887 I found the Meek Flower, Moss Ca7npion, still growing 
" upon its native bed." Cf. Prelude, xiv. 414. 

Wordsworth in the letter from which I have quoted above con- 
tinues : " I never wrote a line without the thought of giving hwi pleas- 
ure; my writings were his delight, and one of the chief solaces of his 
long voyages. But let me stop. I will not be cast down ; were it only 
for his sake I will not be dejected." 

Some have found, or think they have found, in this poem an illus- 
tration oi pathetic fallacy, as Ruskin calls it, — the imposition upon 
Nature of the Poet's own feeling. Let us see ; in the first part of the 
poem the Poet sees the Sea at rest, not as a reflection of his own calm, 
but because he has been familiar with it, not in storm but in calm ; he 
knows its nature as manifested in repose, and hence cannot appreci- 
ate the work of art which is at variance with his strongest impression. 
In the closing part of the poem, he does not violate his philosophy, 
for now having experienced what the storm at sea can do, the impres- 
sion of calm is replaced by that of storm, and hence he can supply 
what before was wanting, and appreciate the artist's work. The 
truth which is here brought out is one which lies at the foundation 
of all creation, as well as of all criticism — sympathy. This refining 
influence of sorrow helps us to the solution of one of the deepest 
problems of human existence. 



37'"^ NO'J'/'.S 7() /'.tC/'.S 18S-19J. 

" I'fihaps," says Mr. Myers, " in compuliii;; (lu- iDidnic of ;inv one 
whomwc hold dear, it may sciiu more nccdiiil lo iiiciuiic, not whclhcr 
he has hail enough of joy, but whether he has hail enough of sorrow." 

I'eele C'astle is on the Isle ol" Man, and was onee a residence of 
(he I'linces of Mona. 

One of the two |)ie(ures of " I'eele (.'.istle in a .Storm " is now in the 
gallery of Sir Cleoige l>e.inmont at Coleorton ll.ill. — Puoi'i.ssoR 
KNu;nr. 

See the succeeding poem. 

To A Young L.iily. 

'I'his poem was addressed to Dorothy Wt)rdsworth. Also the fol- 
lowing, which was written at the same time . — 

Louisa. — Alter accomp.inyirni; hor on a Mountain Excursion. 

I nu't Louisa in llic sli.ulr, 

And Ii.iviui; sei'ii lli.it lovi'ly n\aid, 

Why shoukl 1 fear to say 

That nympli-like, slic is flcot and strung, 

And ilowu the rocks cm Ic.ip along 

Like rivulets in May ? 

.She lovos her lire, Iier cottage lionie ; 
Vet o'er the moorl.iml will she ro.un 
hi weather rough and hleak ; 
A nil when ag.iinst (he wind she strains, 
Oh! might 1 kiss the inouiil.iin rains 
That sparkle on her t:heek 

T.ike all th.it 's mine '' beneath the moon," 

If 1 with her but half a noon 

May sit beneath the walls 

Of some oUl eave, or mossy nook, 

When u[) she winds along the brook 

To hunt the waterfalls. 

The following is from a letter by Dorothy; — 

" lie was never tired of comforting his sister; he iie\er left her in 
anger; he always met her with joy; he preferred her society to every 
other })leasnre." 

See /A'/v/// 1' //'<v</.v :»■'.>////, by l-alnmnd Lee. 



NOT /'IS TO PAGES 194-198. 379 

1006. 

Character of the Happy Warrior. 
Wordsworth's experience in conneelioii with the Frciicli Revolution 
made him a close ol)server of the effect of war upon character. In 
the ninth hook of the /V^-///^/? we Iiavc his description of the patriot 
IJeaupuis; while in the Sonneix to /Jhcrty we have a gallery of illustri- 
ous portraits. Wordsworth's ptjetry is a great store-house of political 
and patriotic eloquence, for although the homely I'oet was as " retired 
as noontide dew" he had a nature which was capable of manifesting a 
Roman fortitude. The devotion which he paid to his ideal, in morals, 
in poetry, and in politics, finds few |)arallels. 

The death of Nelson, at the moment of victory, touched the whole 
English nation. Occurring as it did so soon after the death of the 
Poet's brother, in giving voice to his euKUion he weaves together their 
memories in a eulogy which for simplicity and power has no ef[ual in 
the language. 

In this i>oem we have the purest and nfjhlest inanifcstation of that 
faith in G(k1 and Immortality which characterized Wordsworth as a 
man and a poet. It is this truth, revealed not so much to the eye of 
reasfm, as to the eye of the soul, which renders the life fjf men anrl 
of natifius divine. 

" I'erhaps he alone," says Mr. Ilutton, "of all the great men of that 
day, had seen the light of the countenance of God shining clear in the 
face of Duty." 

"(Jlher poetry l)Ccomcs trifling," says Leslie Stephen, "vvhen we 
arc making our inevitable passages thrtjugh the Valley of the Sliachiw 
of Death." 

See Whittier's poem on the Washington Centennial, Ajjril 30, 1S89. 

Stray Pleasures. 
Suggested on the Thames, by the sight of one of those floating mills 
that used to be seen there. This I noticed on the Surrey sirle be- 
tween Somerset House and lilackfriar's liridge. Charles Lamb wa.s 
with me at the time; and I thought it remarkable that I should have 
to point out to him, an idolatrous Londoner, a sight so mteresting as 
the happy group dancing on the platform. — W. W. 

"Yes, it was the Mountain Echo." 

Written at Town-Lnrl, Grasmere. The echo came frrmi j\ab-Scar, 
when I was walking on the <jpposite side of Rydal Mere. I will here 



380 NOTES TO PAGES 198-203. 

mention for my dear sister's sake, that, while she was sitting alone 
one day high up on this part of Loughrigg Fell, she was so affected by 
the voice of the Cuckoo heard from the crags at some distance that 
she could not suppress a wish to have a stone inscribed with her name 
among the rocks from which the sound proceeded. On my return 
from my walk I recited these verses to Mrs. Wordsworth. — W. W. 

Often while on the Fells have I heard the voice of the Cuckoo from 
across Rydal Mere. The terrace along the side of Loughrigg is one 
of the favorite walks. No stone is to be found bearing Dorothy's 
name, and it is well that it is safe from the hand of the Philistine who 
has marred so many of these memorials. The relative position of the 
mountains in the district rerijders the production of echoes a common 
one. To one rowing upon Grasmere or Rydal Lake the voice is re- 
peated with great variety ; while the echoes from the blasting at the 
quarries remind one of the cannonading effect of thunder in our own 
Catskills. 

Lines on the Death of Mr. Fox. 

The fact that Fox had sympathized with Wordsworth in the posi- 
tion which he took in regard to the principles of the French Revolu- 
tion, doubtless increased the Poet's sadness at his death. 

The description in the first stanza is extremely accurate, for in any 
of the vales of the district the effect of a sudden shower even, is such 
as to produce a unison of voices from the becks, while the position 
of the mountains causes the sounds to be reverberated, as mentioned 
in a previous note. 

See Scott's Marmion^ Introduction to Canto I. 126-165. 

Power of Music 

Taken from life. — W. W. 

In the seventh book of the Prelude the Poet gives us a view of 
London as it appeared to him in 1791. In the spring of 1806 he spent 
two months in the same city ; and if this poem was suggested by scenes 
in this visit we see that he still carried with him the "watchful eye." 
We have in this poem a refutation of the oft-repeated assertion that 
Wordsworth had no appreciation of humor. See Reminiscences of 
Wo'dsivorth, in volume second oi Essays on Poetry, by Aubrey de Vere. 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality. 

Two years, the Poet tells us, elapsed between the writing of the first 
four stanzas and the remainder of the poem ; " and," he continues, 



NOTES TO PAGES 203-210. 381 

** nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the 
notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. But it was 
not so much from feelings of animal vivacity that my difficulty came, 
as from a sense of the indomitableness of the spirit within me. I was 
often unable to think of external things as having external existence. 
Many times while going to school I have grasped at a wall or tree to 
recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality. In later pe- 
riods of my life I have deplored, as we have all reason to do, the sub- 
jugation of an opposite character." In regard to the belief in a prior 
state of existence, he says : " I think it right to protest against a con- 
clusion which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I 
meant to inculcate such a belief. It is far too shadowy a notion to 
be recommended to faith, as more than an element in our instincts of 
immortality. A pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds 
of many nations, and it is known as an ingredient in Platonic philoso- 
phy. . . . When I was impelled to write this poem I took hold of the 
. notion of pre-existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity 
for authorizing me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could 
as a poet." 

To those familiar with Wordsworth's work before this date, the 
philosophy of this Ode will seem what in truth it is, — "the breath and 
finer spirit of all knowledge." The two moods in which the Poet is 
represented are but a reflection of what we have so often seen in his 
poetry, — the relation of the soul to sense, and the possibility that 
the former may forget its celestial birth. The subject of the poem — 
the origin, development, and destiny of the human soul — has seldom 
been absent from his poetry, while in treatment we find the same 
gathering from his former methods. The total effect is perhaps the 
grandest in the literature of the century, so that the term "in- 
spired " is not forced when applied to the Poet who could produce 
such a result. 

Emerson says : " I am a better believer, and all serious souls are 
better believers, in immortality than we can give grounds for. The 
real evidence is too subtle, or is higher than we can write down in 
propositions, and therefore Wordsworth's Ode is the best modern 
essay on the subject." 

The chief value of the poem arises from the fact that it never de- 
scends to the plane of mere argument; it ever keeps on the high 
ground of the essential identity of our childish instincts and our en- 
lightened reason. The deepest truths of the soul cannot be argued, 
they must be lived. In the first four stanzas we have the experi- 



382 NOTES TO PAGES 210-211. 

ence of our common humanity. Doomed as we are to go in company 
with fear and sorrow, — " miserable train," — how are we to prevent 
ourselves from "wronging " the joy of the life that is about us ? The 
Poet, in the next four stanzas, answers the question by reviewing the 
history of the soul, and tracing the steps by which it reached that 
stage. He finds that it is because the soul has become centred in 
the seen and the temporal, and has thus lost its glory and its beauty ; 
it has wellnigh destroyed its spiritual vision. In the concluding 
stanzas he shows us that this may be regained, and that the melan- 
choly fear may be subdued by a return to those simple ways in which 
our childhood walked. We must become as little children in this life 
of the soul, and by blending early intuition and mature reason we 
shall be able to see into the life of things. Thus it is that the Poet 
teaches better science than the Scientist, better philosophy than the 
Philosopher, and better religion than the Priest. Every line of the 
poem is worthy of the closest study. 

See Browning's Rabbi Ben Ezra; Theism of Wordsworth^ by Pro- 
fessor Veitch, in Wordsworth Society Transactiotis^ viii. 



1807. 

"O Nightingale! thou surely art—" 

Written at Town-End, Grasmere. (Mrs. W. says in a note — "At 
Coleorton.") 

In 1803 Wordsworth's friendship for Sir George Beaumont, of Cole- 
orton Hill, Leicestershire, began. Beaumont was a descendant of the 
dramatist of that name, and was distinguished for his ability as an 
artist. This friendship was advantageous for both the painter and the 
poet. Wordsworth's quick discernment of the beauty of Nature made 
him a critic of the art of landscape gardening, and when Beaumont 
was laying out the grounds of Coleorton Hall the Poet was of great 
assistance to him. 

In 1806 the Wordsworths went to Coleorton to spend the winter, 
and it is probable that this poem was written there. 

The following is from an inscription written by Wordsworth and 
engraved on a stone in the grounds at Coleorton : — 

'* The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine 
Will not unwillingly their place resign, 
If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands, 
Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands. 



NOTES TO PAGE 211. 383 

One wooed the silent art with studious pains ; 
These groves have heard the other's pensive strains ; 
Devoted thus their spirits did unite 
By interchange of knowledge and delight." 

Wordsworth was pre-eminently the poet of the home ; his interests 
clustered around the cottage hearth. 

" To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts " 
was his delight. Into the region of romance he seldom ventured, 
preferring to deal with " Nature's unambitious underwood." Can it 
be that in the contrast which he here draws between the nightingale 
and the stock-dove he intends to indicate the difference between his 
sphere and that of some other poets } 

See Keats's Ode to a Nightingale. For details in regard to Coleor- 
ton, see Memories of Coleorton, Knight. 

Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle. 

This poem was composed at Coleorton while I was walking to 
and fro along the path which led from Sir George Beaumont's farm- 
house, where we resided, to the Hall, which was building at that 
time. — W. W. 

The Saxon kingdom of Deira (Northumberland) included what is 
now Lancashire, Yorkshire, Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Durham. 
The division into counties was made by Egbert (825) when he ap- 
pointed for each a Comes to rule in temporal, and a Bishop to rule in 
spiritual, things. Lonkeshire was named from Loncaster, the castle 
on the Lone. Alfred had allowed the Danes to settle in these regions, 
and they were a source of great trouble until William subdued them. 
He built the stronghold, Lancaster Castle, and appointed Ivo Tail- 
bois, of the house of Anjou, Baron of Kendal. This is the beginning 
of the House of Lancaster. 

The history of Westw^r^land — the country of the Western lakes — 
is closely connected with that long and illustrious line which began in 
Roger de Clifford. The eighth in the line was John Lord Clifford, 
who espoused the cause of the Lancastrians. After the battle of 
Wakefield he slew the son of the Duke of York, in revenge for the 
death of his father at the hands of the Yorkists, and was himself 
slain at Ferrvbridge the day before the battle of Towton (1461). The 
family were deprived of their estates, and Henry, the subject of the 
poem, was obliged to live in concealment for twenty-four years, dur- 
ing which time he lived the life of a shepherd. After the battle of 
Bosworth Field the Shepherd Lord was restored to his own by 



384 NOTES TO PAGES 21 1-2 14. 

Henry VII. He spent his time in peaceful pursuits until 1513, when, 
at the age of sixty, he was appointed to a command over the army 
which fought at Flodden. He died at the age of seventy, and was 
buried at Bolton Priory. 

1-4. Brougham Castle is situated on the river Emont, about one 
mile and a half from Penrith. It is now in ruins. During the last 
half of the sixteenth century the castle was neglected, and it suffered 
much as Furness Abbey has suffered, — the stone of which has been 
used for dwellings. " Brave and bonny " Cumberland during the 
Border Wars and the Wars of the Roses erected castle after castle, 
many rums of which now stand, grim historians of the political life 
of those days. See Prelude, vi. 190-220. 

7. From first battle of St. Albans, 1455, to battle of Bosworth, 
1485. 

13. The marriage of Henry VII. with Elizabeth of York. 

27. From Battle of Bosworth Field, by Sir John Beaumont, and al-- 
ludes to the many murders committed by Richard II I. 

36.- Castle in Yorkshire comprised in the estates of the Cliffords, 
deserted while the Peasant Lord was attainted. When the disso- 
lution of the Monasteries was followed by insurrection the dis- 
possessed Heads were finally repulsed at Skipton by the Earl of 
Northumberland. 

40. Another of the castles of the Cliffords, near the source of 
the river Eden, Cumberland, destroyed in 16S5. Its origin is ascribed 
to Uther Pendragon, the mighty Briton who withstood so long the 
ravages of the ruthless Saxons. Tradition says he tried to alter the 
course of the river to better fortify this castle, but failed. 

" Let Uther Pendragon do what he can, 
, The river Eden will run as it ran." 

44, 45. Brough Castle, on the Hillbeck stream, which flows into the 
Eden, and is probably older than the Norman Conquest. 

46, 47. Appleby Castle, a ruin since 1565. 

54. The mother of Henry Lord Clifford was Margaret, daughter of 
Lord Vesci. 

73. Carrock-fell, not far from Castle Sowerby, Cumberland. 

89-9*2. The vale of Mosedale is north of Blencathara (Saddleback), 
a mountain not far from Keswick. Glenderamakin rises on the high 
ground not far from Saddleback. 

94-100. Sir Lancelot Threlkeld concealed the boy on his estates in 
Cumberland. 



NOTES TO PAGES 214-217. 385 

In the Waggoner we have : — 

" And see beyond that hamlet small 
The ruined towers of Threlkeld Hall. 
There at Blencathara's rugged feet, 
Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat 
To noble Clifford." 

The hall is now a ruin, save one portion used as a farmhouse. 

123. It was a belief, in the olden time, that there were two im- 
mortal fish in this tarn. It is not far from Blencathara. 

142-145- These lines have a genuhie epic ring, and reflect the life 
of the time — a time filled with the prejudices, the passions, and the 
pomp of war. The Northern Heights seem to have contributed their 
full share toward all these. In 1584 we find that Cumberland and 
Westmoreland furnished " Eight thousand three hundred and fifty 
horsemen, archers, and billmen." The Kendal men are mentioned 
with honor at the battle of Flodden — 

" There are the bows of Kentdale bold 
Who fierce will fight and never flee." 

Wordsworth's Muse loves to range 

" Where untroubled peace and concord dwells," 
and seldom does she lead him into the fields of chivalry and romance. 
In but two instances do we have subjects which would permit of the 
full epic treatment. 

In this poem he does not dwell, as Scott would have done, upon the 
mustering of the forces, the description of the leaders, the shock of 
battle, and the deeds of prowess, but upon those qualities of the Shep. 
herd Lord which distinguish him as a man and by which he was en- 
deared to all. The treatment is subjective rather than objective, and 
in its rapid movement from \\i^ jubilate at the opening, through the 
various phases of family fortune, to the slowly moving, meditative 
stanzas at the close, the poem is representative of the variety of form 
and feeling of which Wordsworth was master. This is, I take it, 
what Coleridge means when he says : — 

" From no contemporary writer could so many lines be quoted, with- 
out reference to the poem in which they are to be found, for their own 
independent weight and beauty." 

The Force of Prayer. 
Written as an appendage to the White Doe of Rylstone, and in the 
advertisement to that poem Wordsworth says that in 1S07 he visited 

25 



3^6 AZOTES TO PAGES 217-220. 

for the first time the beautiful country that surrounds Bolton Priory in 
Yorkshire. It was with the Canons of Bolton that the good Lord Clif- 
ford is said to have followed the pursuit of astronomy and alchemy. 
Bolton Priory is situated in the picturesque valley of the Wharf. 
About half a mile above the Priory the valley narrows and the jut- 
ting rocks almost meet above the river. This chasm is called the Strid. 
The teaching of this poem is to be found expanded in the Excursion: 
" The darts of anguishyf;t: not where the seat 

Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 

By acquiescence in the Will supreme 

For time and for eternity." 

Of this poem Lamb says : — 

" Young Romilly is divine ; the reasons of the mother's grief being 
remediless. I never saw parental love carried up so high, towering 
above the other loves. Shakespeare had done something for the filial 
in Cordelia, and by implication for the fatherly too, in Lear's resent- 
ment ; he left it for you to explore the depths of the maternal grief." 

1814. 

Most of the poems written between 1807 and 1814 were sonnets, while 
at the same time the Excursion was being written. In 1808, Uove Cot- 
tage being too small for the family, they removed to Allan Bank, on the 
western side of the lake, where they lived for three years ; then they 
moved to the Parsonage near the Church. In 1813 Rydal Mount be- 
came their home. 

Laodamia. 

1814 marks an era in the poetical life of Wordsworth. In the 
preparation of his eldest son for the University, he was drawn more 
closely to the classic writers, especially Virgil, and this Country-loving 
Poet had new delights for him. The picture in the sixth ^neid sug- 
gested to him this loftiest and most pathetic of his poems. 

The hero and heroine are taken from Homer and Ovid, and the 
whole tone of the poem is the finest and richest expression of classic 
beauty and finish. It is in marked contrast to the severe ruggedness 
of Michael, and the magical smoothness of the Solitary Reaper, yet it 
is like them in the perfect harmony of theme and the -expression. 
Thus it may be said that the Poet had as many styles as the nature 
of his subjects required. 

Sacrifice is the crowning attribute of that " blessed love " which 



NOTES TO PAGES 220-231. 387 

had always been the subject of his song, and this poem is the amplest 
of his utterances upon this divine quality in man. It is the favorite 
of the critics. Hazlitt wrote : " It breathes the pure spirit of the 
finest fragments of antiquity. It is a poem that might be read aloud 
in Elysium, and the spirits of departed heroes and sages would gather 
round to listen to it." Landor pronounced Laodamia to be " a com- 
position such as Sophocles might have exulted to own." 

Aubrey de Vere says : " After I had read Laodamia (which was 
his introduction to Wordsworth), some strong calm hand seemed to 
have been laid on my head ; a new world opened itself out. I was 
translated into another planet of song." 

Dion. 
Another product of this revival of interest in the classics was Dion. 
In language as majestic as it is transparent he weaves a wreath for 
the dead philosopher, and teaches that the only real failure for a man 
is the retreat from his high ideals. This is the lesson of CEdipus, of 
Hamlet, and of Brutus —the failure of the idealist in a positive world. 
For those who measure success by our present standards of material- 
ism such lives present but little of interest, while for those who be- 
lieve that nothing but real worth can succeed in the end, they bring 
consolation and strength ; for — 

" Right is right, since God is God, 
And Right the day must win." 

Lamb wrote : " The story of Dion is divine —the genius of Plato fall- 
ing on him like moonlight, the finest thing ever expressed." 
See Plutarch. 

Composed at Cora Linn.i 
On the i8th of July, 1814, Wordsworth, in company with his wife 
and Sara Hutchinson, left Rydal for a tour in Scotland. Only four 
poems were the product of this visit. 

In the first book of Wit Prelude, Wordsworth tells us that "when an 
earnest longing rose to brace himself to some determined aim," among 
the various subjects which suggested themselves was the following : 
" How Wallace died for Scotland; left the name 
Of Wallace, to be found, like a wild flower, 
All over his dear country ; left the deeds 

1 Water-fall. 



388 NOTES TO PAGES 231-236. 

Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts 

To people the steep rocks and river banks." 

See Burns's Scots wha hae wi' Wallace Bled. 
6. The Castle of Corra, near the water-fall. 

Yarrow Visited. 

In his first visit to Scotland Wordsworth was fortunate in having 
made the acquaintance of Walter Scott; now he meets him whom 
Scott, while gathering the Border Minstrelsy, had discovered on the 
hills of Ettrick — James Hogg. Having spent the night at Traquair, 
on the following morning the Ettrick Shepherd met them and became 
their guide to the " bonny holms of Yarrow." They were now in the 
one spot of all that "singing country " toward which they had looked 
with the fondest anticipation. The spontaneous interrogation, min- 
gled with surprise and perhaps disappointment, bursts forth, — 
" And is this — Yarrow ? " 

There is no place in the Highlands so rich in tender associations 
and natural beauty as the vale of Yarrow. It has been the subject of 
those nameless singers whose ballads were first caught and given to 
the world by Scott in his Border Minstrelsy. One who visits this 
scene should be familiar with such ballads as The Douglas Trat^edy, 
The Dowie Dens of Yarroiu, Lament of the Border IVidow, The So?ig 
of Outlaw Murray, and Auld Maitland, all of which belong to Yar- 
row and Ettrick. On an early morning in August, 1S87, I went alone 
on my first visit to these vales. The sun was just beginning to scatter 
the clothing of mist and reveal the braes and bens with their grace- 
ful flowing outline, the clear streams winding through the fern and 
heather, the mouldering towers of Dryhope, where the Border chief- 
tains came to woo the lovely Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, and 
clear St. Mary's Loch visibly delighted with her exquisite setting of 
emerald and purple. Then it was that I appreciated these lines — 

" Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
A softness still and holy " — 

such was the pensive loveliness of the scene. 

In purity, sweetness, and pathos ; in inimitable ease and grace of 
metre; in intense realization of the secret of Nature, — these Yarrow 
poems are simply perfect. It is no wonder that with such weapons 
Wordsworth could put to flight the literary gladiators who could not 
distinguish poetry from verse. 

Cf. Introduction to Canto i. of Scott's Afarviion, 1-36. 



NOTES TO PAGES 236-240. 389 

1816. 

To . 

Written at Rydal Mount. The lady was Miss Blackett, then resid- 
ing with Mr. Montagu Burgoyne at Fox-Ghyll. We were tempted 
to remain too long upon the mountain ; and I, imprudently, with the 
hope of shortening the way, led her among the crags and down a steep 
slope which entangled us in difficulties that were met by her with 
much spirit and courage. — W. W.- 

29. Cf. Paradise Lost, Book iii. 736-742. 

1817. 

Ode to Lycoris. 

This poem was written in front of Rydal Mount, and in connection 
with it Wordsworth says : " Surely one who has written so much in 
verse as I have done may be allowed to retrace his steps in the re- 
gions of fancy which delighted him in his boyhood, when he first 
became acquainted with the Greek and Roman poets. Before I read 
Virgil I was strongly attached to Ovid. As to Homer, I was never 
weary of the scenes through which he led me." The following lines 
of the poem To the Same show that these poems were addressed to 
his wife or his sister : — 

" Dearest Friend ! 
We too have known such happy hours together 
That, were power granted to replace them (fetched 
From out the pensive shadows where they lie) 
In the first warmth of their original sunshine, 
Loath should I be to use it : passing sweet 
Are the domains of tender memory I " 

Pass of Kirkstone. 

Written at Rydal Mount. Thoughts and feelings of many walks in 
all weathers, by day and night, over this Pass, alone and with beloved 
friends. — W. W. 

If one is staying at Grasmere a pleasant tramp of two days may be 
made by crossing Helvellyn by Grisdale Tarn to Patterdale, and re- 
turning by way of Kirkstone Pass and Ambleside. From Patterdale 
one passes Brother's Water, the scene of the Daffodils, and near the 
summit of the Pass on the right the Kirk stones. The famous inn is 
said to be the highest inhabited house in England. The views on 



Sgo AZOTES TO PAGES 240-248. 

the route are of surpassing beauty, although all is so desolate there. 
From the inn to Ambleside the scenery is in marked contrast to the 
ruggedness and desolation of the ascent. Wansfell and Red Screes 
are near at hand as guardians of the Vale, while below lies Winder- 
mere, her islands and her gleaming bays beautiful in the dark frame- 
work of wooded hills, 

" Magnificent and beautiful and gay." 

Wordsworth's inspiration in the closing lines of this poem is indica- 
tive of those spiritual heights from which at times this " Prophet of 
the moral depths of the human soul" viewed the world. 

41-48. Among the evidences of Roman occupation in these regions 
are the roads. In Hodgson's History of Northumberland Kirkstone 
Pass is mentioned as one of the roads by which Agricola led his two 
columns into Westmoreland. 

Sequel to the Beggars. 
See note to the Beggars, 1802. 



1818. 

Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary Splendor and Beauty. 

Felt and in great part composed upon the little mount in front of 
our abode at Rydal. — W. W. 

61-80. Cf. Ode on Intimations of h7imortality. 

After the production of the immortal Ode {1806) Wordsworth's in- 
spiration did not again reach that lofty height, unless upon this occa- 
sion, when the glory and splendor, the "intermingling of heaven's 
pomp," was witnessed during a sunset among the Westmoreland nills. 
Surely the purity, the sublimity, the grace, and simplicity of the Ode 
are here reproduced with an element of " peace supreme " which is 
the product of Christian failj^. Cf. Bryant's Rivulet. 

Near the Spring of the Hermitage. 

This poem is one of a series of Inscriptions supposed to be foujid in 
or near a Hermit'' s Cell. Written at Rydal. 
Cf. My Heart Leaps Up, 1802. 



NOTES TO PAGES 249-254. 391 

1819. 

September, 1819. 

Composed in front of Rydal Mount and during my walks in the 
neighborhood. — W. W. 

In the Ode to Lycoris we have ; — 

" When Nature marks the year's decline 
Be ours to welcome it." 

It is true that Wordsworth when young wrote with a seriousness 
which was almost premature. Now the experiences of sorrow have 
brought the "philosophic mind," and a mood more serene, more 
" sweetly gracious," succeeds. The optimism of the first four stanzas 
is a reflection from the Ode to Duty. 

" Serene will be our days and bright " 

when love has been the motive of our lives, for then " the least of 
things seem infinite." 

29, y^. " He serves the Muses erringly and ill 

Whose aim is pleasure, light and fugitive." 

36, Cf. Horace, Ode Ad Lollium. 
40. Sappho, Ode to Aphrodite. 

1820. 

The River Duddon. 
To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth. 

At this time Dr. Christopher Wordsworth was rector of Lambeth 
parish ; he afterward became Master of Trinity. 

49-54. Cf. Sonnet, Spirit of Cockerniouth Castle^ also Prelude, i. 269 
et seq. 

55-60. Cf. Sonnets XL, XII. 

1823. 

Memory. 

Wordsworth, in the note to Lines Written in Macphersoii's Ossian, 
says that these lines on Memory were suggested by some apprehen- 
sions of the fate of Hartley Coleridge. 

The even and tranquil course in which the Poet's last years flowed 
on, notwithstanding the " immeasurable loss " of Dora, is fitly repre- 



392 NOTES TO PAGES 254-260. 

sented in the closing stanzas of this poem. Mr. Myers asks : " What 
touch has given to these lines their impress of unfathomable peace? 
There speaks from them a tranquillity which seems to overcome our 
souls; which makes us feel that we are travelling to a region where 
' immoderate fear shall leave us, and inordinate love shall die.' " 

To the Lady Fleming. 

The Flemings are descended from Sir Michael le Fleming, brother- 
in-law of William the Conqueror. He came over with William, and 
in reward for services against the Scots received manors in Lanca- 
shire and Cumberland, Coningstone Hall being one. See note to 
Conchision of a Poem, 1795. 

In the grant to Furness Abbey given by Stephen, nephew of Henry I., 
in 1 1 27, we find "with all the lands thereof, with sac and soc, tol and 
team, infangtheof, and everything within Furness, except the lands of 
Michael le Fleming." 

Rydal estate came to Thomas le Fleming of Coningstone by his 
marriage with Isabella, co-heir with Sir John de Lancastre, to whose 
ancestors it had been granted by Margaret, widow of Robert de Ros, 
1274. Grasmere Church, formerly a chapelry under the mother 
church of Kendal, was in the time of Elizabeth sold to the Le Flem- 
ings of Rydal. 

Rydal Mount, more frequently described than any English poet's 
home except Shakespeare's, belonged to Rydal Hall. 

1824. 

"O dearer far than light and life are dear." 

Written at Rydal Mount. To Mrs. W. — W. W. 

The picture of Wordsworth's wedded life is a delight. Every allu- 
sion that he makes to his wife is full of the deepest love and rever- 
ence. When processes of logic bring him doubt, her love with its 
"sober certainties" comes to his relief. She thus, "not too bright or 
good for human nature's daily food," was able to " cherish and up- 
hold " him. 

The following poem to Mrs. Wordsworth was written this year : — 

Let other bards of angels sing, 

Bright suns without a spot ; 
But thou art no such perfect thing : 

Rejoice that thou art not I 



NOTES TO PAGES 260-270. 393 

Heed not tho' none should call thee fair: 

So, Mary, let it be 
If naught in loveliness compare 

With what thou art to me. 

True beauty dwells in deep retreats, 

Whose veil is unremoved 
Till heart with heart in concord beats, 

And the lover is beloved. 

See Harriet Martineau's Biographical Essays. 

V.'ritten on a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian. 
The verses — 

" or strayed 
From hope and promise, self-betrayed " — 
were, I am sorry to say, suggested from apprehensions of the fate of 
my friend H. C} the subject of the verses addressed To H. C. when 
six years old. The piece to Memory arose out of similar feelings. — 
W. W. 

See Modern Gaelic Bards in Professor Shairp's Aspects 0/ Poetry. 

1825. 

To a Skylark. 

Written at Rydal Mount. — W. W. 

Cf. the earlier (1805) poem on the same subject; also Shelley's 
Skylark. 

1826. 

Tne Pillar of Trajan. 

This was given* as the subject for the Newdigate prize poem at 
Oxford, and Wordsworth wished his son John, who was then an un- 
dergraduate there, to try for it. On his declining to do so, the Poet 
wrote this to show him what could be done with the subject. 

The column was set up by the Senate and people in commemora- 
tion of the conquest of Dacia by Trajan. It was 132 feet high anc] 
surmounted by a colossal statue of the Emperor ; it stood in the cen- 
tre of the Forum Trajanum. The sculptures which covered it pic- 
ture the Dacian wars. See Merivale's Romans under the Emperors. 

55-60. Cf. Character of the Happy Warrior, 

1 Hartley Coleridge. 



394 NOTES TO PAGES 270-276. 



1828. 

The Wishing Gate. 
Written at Rydal. See also Wishing-gate Destroyed. — W. W. 
A gate still stands in the old place, and from the inscriptions cut 
upon it one would judge that " Hope " still rules there. 

Beside the wishing gate which so they name, 
Mid northern hills to me this fancy came, 
A wish I formed, my wish I thus expressed : 
Would I could wish my wishes all to rest 
And know to wish the wish that were the best. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 

The Wishing-Gate Destroyed. 

In regard to the occasion of the second poem Wordsworth says : 
" Having been told that this gate had been destroyed, and the opening 
where it hung walled up, I gave vent immediately to my feelings in 
these stanzas. But going to the place some time after, I found with 
much delight my old favorite unmolested." 

" In these Fair Vales hath Many a Tree." 
Inscription for a Stone in the Grounds at Rydal Moimt. 

Engraven during my absence in Italy, upon a brass plate inserted 
in the stone. — W. W. 

The inscription still remains upon the stone. Rev. Mr. Rawnsley, 
in his Reminiscences of Wordsworth atnong the Peasantry, gives the fol- 
lowing from a dalesman : " He 'ud never pass folks draining, or ditch- 
ing, or walling a cottage but what he 'd stop and say, ' Eh dear, but it 's 
a pity to move that stoan, and doant ya think ya might leave that tree ? ' 
I 'member there was a walling chap just going to shoot a girt stoan to 
bits wi' powder in the grounds at Rydal, and "he came up and saaved 
it, and wrote summat on it." 



1831. 

The Primrose of the Rock. 
Written at Rydal Mount. The rock stands on the right hand, a 
little way leading up the middle road from Rydal to Grasmere. We 
have been in the.habit of calling it the Glow-worm Rock, from the 



NOTES TO PAGES 276-278. 395 

number of glow-worms we have often seen hanging on it as described. 
— W. W. 

We walked in the evening to Rydal. Coleridge and I lingered be- 
hind. We all stood to look at the Glow-worm Rock — a primrose 
that grew there, and just looked out on the road from its own shel- 
tered bower. — Dorothy Wordsworth, 1802. 

The rock still remains. 

No one can fail to notice the contrast between the buoyant charm 
and natural magic of the Daffodils, and the slower, sweeter, and more 
reserved style of this poem. Here symbol is everything, reality next 
to nothing. We must admit that the later style is more in keeping 
with the truth of human life, for to most of us it is, if not sad, at least 
a serious thing, and we need such poetry as this, with its "sweet 
reasonableness," to keep us from becoming disheartened. 

" The Primrose of the Rock,^'' says Aubrey de Vere, "is as distinctly 
Wordsworthian in its inspiration as it is Christian in its doctrine." 

Yarrow Revisited. 

In the autumn of 1831 Wordsworth and his daughter set out for 
Scotland to visit once again the old friend. Sir Walter Scott, then in 
declining health. At Abbotsford they met many of Scott's family 
and friends — Major Scott, Anne Scott, Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart, and 
William Laidlaw. 

On the next morning Scott accompanied them to Newark Castle 
on the Yarrow. The events of this day are commemorated in the 
poem. There seems to be a deep significance in the fact that this 
time the two poets did not linger on the braes and bens, but about 
the mouldering ruin of Newark; we can see in it the effect of the 
thought that this was probably the last meeting of the two. The 
fear that Scott would not be able to revive his strength, even upon 
*' Warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes," oppresses Wordsworth and colors 
the whole poem. These forebodings proved too true. This was not 
only their last meeting, but it was Scott's last visit to the Vale of Yar- 
row and the scenes he loved so dearly. The poem, although in many 
respects unequal to the others upon the same subject, is nevertheless 
a tender and affectionate memorial of the love of two poets differing 
widely in character and methods. 

*' On the 22d," says Mr. Lockhart, "these two great poets, who had 
through life loved each other and appreciated each other's genius 
more than infirm spirits ever did either of them, spent the morning 
together in a visit to Newark. Hence the last of the three poems by 



396 NOTES TO PAGES 278-283. 

which Wordsworth has connected his name to all time with the most 
romantic of Scottish streams. " 

Cf. Rememb7-ance of the Bj-aes of Yarrow, by Professor Shairp. 

On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Naples. 

On their return from Newark in the afternoon they crossed the 
Tweed just above Abbotsford ; as the wheels grated upon the pebbles 
of the stream Wordsworth noticed the sad light which settled upon 
the Eildon Hills, and thinking it might be the last time Sir Walter 
would cross the stream, he was moved to express his feelings, which 
he did in this sonnet. It is the finest tribute ever paid by one poet 
to another. 

On the morning of the day upon which Wordsworth left Abbots- 
ford Sir Walter had written in Dora's album, and on putting the book 
into her hand he said, " I should not have done anything of this kind 
but for your father's sake: they are probably the last verses I shall 
ever write." They were his last. One stanza is as follows : — 

"And meet it is that he who saw 
The first faint rays of genius burn 
Snould mark their latest light with awe, 
Low glimmering from their funeral urn." 

When Wordsworth on parting expressed the hope that he would be 
restored to health by this visit to Italy, Sir Walter replied in words 
from Yarrow Uiwisited. This incident is recalled in Wordsworth's 
Musings in Aquapendente : — 

** He said, ' When I am there, although 't is fair, 
'T will be another Yarrow.' Prophecy- 
More than fulfilled, as gay Campania's shores 
Soon witnessed and the city of the seven hills." 

Wordsworth after his return sent these two poems to Scott. 



1832. 

Devotional Incitements. 

W^ritten at Rydal Mount. — W. W. 

This poem gives conclusive evidence that in old age Wordsworth 
still preserved his young love for Nature, and his magical interpre- 
tive power. The keenness of insight, the lyric rapture, the soothing 
effect of this poem written at the age of sixty-two, indicate that the 



NOTES TO PAGES 283-287, 397 

prayer he uttered for another had been answered for him, and an old 
age serene and bright had been granted. This Vesper Hymn, in- 
stinct with that "grace divine," without which there can be no Sab- 
bath of the heart, should be read in connection with the matins in the 
Exctcrsion : — 

" Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir'st ■ 
The human Soul. Upon me bestow 
A gift of genuine insight ; that my song 
With star-like virtue in its place may shine, 
Shedding benignant influence." 

" If thou Indeed." 

These verses were written some time after we had become resi- 
dents of Rydal Mount, and I will take occasion from them to observe 
upon the beauty of that situation, as being backed and flanked by lofty 
fells which bring the heavenly bodies to touch, as it were, the earth 
upon the mountain tops, while the prospect in front lies open to a 
length of level valley, the extended lake, and a terminating ridge of 
low hills; so that it gives an opportunity to the inhabitants of the 
place of noticing the stars in both positions here alluded to, namely, 
on the tops of the mountains and as winter lamps at a distance among 
the leafless trees. — W. W. 

We see from the above what a realist Wordsworth was as regards 
the origin of his poems, and this makes them exceedingly interesting 
to a visitor in the Country of the Lakes. 

Cf. Sonnet, To B. A\ Haydon, 181 5. 



1833. 

"if this Great World." 
This poem has reference to the excitement caused by the Reform 
Bill. 

1834. 

" Not in the Lucid Intervals of Life." 

The lines following "nor do words " were written with Lord Byron's 
character, as a poet, before me, and that of others, his contemporaries, 
who wrote under like influences. — W. W. 

Compare sonnet, The world is too much tvith zis, 1806. 



398 AZOTES TO PAGES 287-293. 

There is no whining, no cynicism here, but the manly utterance of 
one who knew that better things were near if <jne had the inclination 
to reach forth and appropriate them. 

To a Child. 

This quatrain was extempore on observing this image, as I had 
often done, on the lawn of Rydal Mount. It was first written down 
in the album of my god-daughter, Rotha Quillinan. — W. W. 



1835. 

Written after the Death of Charles Lamb. 

Mary Lamb was ten years older than her brother, and has survived 
him as long a time. Were I to give way to my own feelings, I shouie! 
dwell not only on her genius and intellectual powers, but upon the 
delicacy and refinement of her manners, which she maintained invio- 
lable under most trying circumstances. She was loved and honored 
by all her brother's friends. The death of Charles Lamb was hastened 
by his sorrow for that of Coleridge. — W. W. 

The story of the lives of Charles and Mary Lamb is one which, 
while sad and touching, reveals a sweetness and fraternal fidelity 
unparalleled in history. What a contrast is the companion picture of 
Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy in their happy lives of health and 
strength ! Lamb was buried in Edmonton church-yard in a spot 
selected by himself. 

23. Cf. Lamb's sonnet addressed to his own name. 

See Talfourd's Life of Charles Lamb ; also Words7vorth and Charles 
Laniby in Transactions of the Wordsworth Society. 

Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg. 

These lines were written extempore immediately after reading a 
notice of the Ettrick Shepherd's death, in a Newcastle paper, to the 
editor of which Wordsworth sent a copy for publication. In Lock- 
hart's Life of Scott, an account is given of their first meeting, in 1803. 
Crabbe he had met in London at Mr. Rogers's, and in rambles upon 
Hampstead Heath. Mrs. Hemans, who lived at Dovenest on Win- 
dermere, he knew intimately and loved for her amiable qualities, and 
her irreproachable conduct during her long separation from an unfeel- 
ing husband. Of his friendship for Coleridge and Scott his poems 



NOTES TO PAGES 293-296. 399 

are a sufficient history. With the exception of Crabbe these poets 
were younger than Wordsworth. They all died between 1812 and 
1835- 

1845. 

" So Fair, So Sweet." 

The circumstance which gave rise to this poem was a walk in 
July, 1S44, from Windermere, by Rydal and Grasmere, to Loughrigg 
Tarn, made by Wordsworth in company with J. C. Hare, Sir William 
Hamilton, Professor Butler, and others. One of the party writes of 
it as follows : — • 

When we reached the side of Loughrigg Tarn the loveliness of 
the scene arrested our steps and fixed our gaze. When the Poet's 
eyes were satisfied with their feast on the beauties familiar to them, 
they sought relief in search, to them a happy vital habit, for new 
beauty in the flower-enamelled turf at his feet. There his attention 
was arrested by a fair smooth stone, of the size of an ostrich's egg, 
seeming to imbed at its centre, and at the same time to display a 
dark star-shaped fossil of most distinct outline. Upon closer mspec- 
tion this proved to be the shadow of a daisy projected upon it. The 
Poet drew the attention of the rest of the party to the minute but 
beautiful phenomenon, and gave expression at the time to thoughts 
suggested by it, which so interested Professor Butler that he plucked 
the tiny flower, and, saying that "it should be not only the theme but 
the memorial of the thought they had heard," bestowed it somewhere 
for preservation. — Professor Knight. 

Ruskin says of the poem : — 

"That is a bit of good, downright, foreground painting, — no mis- 
take about it; daisy, shadow, and stone texture and all. Our painters 
must come to this before they have done their duty." 
"The child is father of the man," 

for here, at the age of seventy-five, we have the intense love, the clear 
vision, the rich coloring, of the earlier poems. 

See Aubrey de Vere, Literature in its Social Aspects. 

1797. 

The Reverie of Poor Susan. 

This arose out of my observations of the affecting music of these 
birds hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness 
and stillness of the spring mornings. — W. W. 

See Myers' Wordsworth (English Men of Letters Series), page 16. 



400 * NOTES. 



THE SONNET. 



Among the Italians there originated a form of verse combination in 
which a special rime arrangement prevailed; the name "sonnet" was 
given to this. It was a short poem limited to the expression of a 
single idea ; soon fourteen lines became the fixed length, and later 
these lines were combined according to fixed and intricate rules. 
According to these rules the ideal sonnet should conform to the fol- 
lowing conditions : It must consist of fourteen lines divided into two 
systems — the major system, consisting of the first eight lines, com- 
plete in themselves ; and then the minor system, with six concluding 
lines. The major system should contain but two rimes: i, 4, 5.8, 
and 2, 3, 6, 7, concluding with a pause in the sense. In the minor sys- 
tem there should be only two rimes: 9, ir, 13, and 10, 12, 14. Other 
rules were laid down, many of which were merely capricious, but these 
were insisted upon. 

The earliest forms of the sonnet belong to the thirteenth century. 
Fra Guittone d'Arrezzo furnished the model for Dante and Petrarch, 
who perfected this form of writing, the one giving it strength, the 
other beauty. 

" A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief." 

That period of English literature which was the j^relude to the age 
of Spenser and Shakespeare received its main impulse from Italy. 
The influence of Chaucer had declined, and intellectual life disap- 
peared with religious liberty. There remained only a few puerile 
chroniclers, and imitators of inane French romance. 

Toward the end of the fifteenth century the nobility, possibly 
shamed by the contrast to the Scottish court, began to give some 
thought to the education of their children. The literary centre of 
Europe was at the brilliant court of Lorenzo de Medici, and hither 
flocked the scholars of all countries. When Englishmen returned 
filleci with enthusiasm, and became tutors, they stimulated their pupils 
with a desire to visit Italy, the "land of promise." 

It was to this secondary influence of the revival of learning that 
the new movement in literature was due. The heralds of the dawn 
were Sir Thomas Wyatt and Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, " who had 
tasted the sweet and stately measures and style of Italian ])oesy." To 
them belongs the honor of reforming the literature and introducing 
the sonnet into our language. Petrarch was their model, and love 



NOTES. 401 

their iheme. Wyatt followed the Italian model very closely, and his 
work is characterized by strength and dignity. Surrey nitroduced 
some changes into the form of the sonnet : he divided it into three 
independent quatrains, and closed with a couplet. His work was dis- 
tinguished for grace and beauty. 

During the last ten years of the sixteenth century and the first ten 
of the seventeenth there was the most remarkable production of 
sonnets. The list, headed by Sidney, contains the names of Daniel, 
Constable, Lodge, Watson, Drayton, Spenser, and Shakespeare. With 
Shakespeare ends the first form of the English sonnet, composed of 
three quatrains and a concluding couplet, — 

ab ab cd cd ef ef gg. 

Milton's sonnets, although few in number, are of the finest quality; 
in their structure they follow Petrarch's rule, which divides the sonnet 
into two unequal parts, the major and the minor. This is the second 
form of the English sonnet, — 

I, 4, 5. 8, 2, 3, 6, 7, II 9, II, 13, 10, 12, 14, or 
ab ba ab ba || cd cd cd. 

After Milton we see no more of the sonnet in its power until we 
come to Covvper; following him is that illustrious company of singers 
contemporary with the French Revolution, — Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
Shelley, Byron, and Keats, each of whom made substantial contribu- 
tions to the sonnet literature. Among these Wordsworth's work is 
by far the most significant, not only in the nature and variety of the 
subjects treated, but also in the manner of composition. He restored 
the sonnet to the place it held in Milton's time. The style of the 
sonnet was at the farthest remove from the style of the Prelude and 
\\iQ. Excursion, and it is not a little remarkable that one who possessed 
such wealth of thought and such fluency of language should have been 
satisfied 

" Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground." 

But Wordsworth " had the tonic of a wholesome pride ; " he was a 
most careful writer and was exceedingly frugal in his literary econ- 
omy; these were the prerequisites for success with the sonnet. The 
care which he exercised in pruning, recasting, and correcting his 
workmanship is seen in the frequent alterations of the text ; many of 
them cover the period of a lifetime, and preserve for us the changing 
moods of the Poet's mind. While nearly every poet since Words- 
worth has occasionally dignified the sonnet, with only two — Elizabeth 

26 



402 NOTES TO PAGE 299. 

Barrett Browning and Dante Gabriel Rossetti — has it been a favorite 
form of expression. Browning, who is master of so many varieties of 
verse, has, I think, never used the sonnet form. 



1802. 



" I Grieved for Buonaparte'." 

We are fortunate in knowing the birthday of the Wordsworthian 
sonnet. On May 21, 1802, while his sister was reading to him some 
of Milton's sonnets, his genius was kindled and immediately produced 
three sonnets : this sonnet is the only one of the three which has been 
preserved. With this trumpet-call to " a few strong instincts and a 
few plain rules," opens that magnificent series of Sonnets to Liberty, 
which Mr. Myers says are worthy of comparison with the noblest 
passages of patriotic verse or prose which history has inspired. 

The Prelude gives us the character of Wordsworth's early patri- 
otism ; the Sonnets to Liberty, his later ; the aims and principles are 
the same in both — the enfranchisement of the individual from the 
tyranny of a low ideal. His change of opinion as to methods was 
entirely consistent, and he had a much truer democratic sense of the 
dignity of man than did those who hastened to pronounce him a de- 
serter of the cause. 

In this sonnet one hardly knows which to praise the most— the prac- 
tical wisdom, the lofty conception, or the grave and solemn harmony. 
Can one confidently affirm that in these respects even Shakespeare's 
sonnets are superior ? 



Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802. 
Wordsworth and his sister left Town-End for the Continent in July, 
1S02. Under date of July 30, we have the following record in his 
sister's diary: "Left London between five and six o'clock of the 
morning, outside the Dover coach. A beautiful morning. The city, 
St. Paul's, the river — a multitude of boats — made a beautiful sight 
as we crossed Westminster Bridge; the houses not overhung by 
their clouds of smoke, and were spread out endlessly; yet the sun 
shone so brightly, with such a pure light, that there was something 
like the purity of one of Nature's own grand spectacles." It was on 



NOTES TO PAGES 299-301. 403 

the way to Dover that this sonnet was written, hence the date of the 
heading is incorrect. This is perhaps the best known of Words- 
worth's sonnets, as it is certainly one of the noblest. In simplicity 
and grace of language, in dignity and purity of sentiment, in unity 
and compactness of form, it has no superior. In reference to it 
Walter Bagehot says: "A better instance of pure style cannot be 
found. Not a single expression can be spared, yet not a single ex- 
pression rivets the attention." The full beauty of this sonnet was re- 
vealed to me when in July, 18S7, after I had spent the night in the 
House of Commons listening to Gladstone, Harcourt, and Balfour, I 
crossed Westminster Bridge at early dawn. The contrast between 
the boisterous scenes of the House of Commons and the beauty and 
serenity of that July morning was indescribable. 

III. 

Composed by the Sea-side near Calais, 1802. 

This sonnet and the six that follow it were composed at Calais in 
August, 1802. The following is from Dorothy's Journal : " Arrived at 
Calais at four o'clock in the morning of July 31st. Delightful walks 
in the evening, seeing far off in the west the coast of England like a 
cloud, crested with Dover Castle, the evening star, and the glory of 
the sky. The reflections in the water were more beautiful than the 
sky itself, — purple waves brighter than precious stones forever melting 
far away upon the sands." 

IV. 
Calais, August, 1802. 
Cf. PreludCy vi. 339-341. 



Composed near Calais, on the Road leading to Andres- 
Robert Jones was a college mate of Wordsworth, and accompanied 

him upon the pedestrian tour in Switzerland, 1790. Cf. Prehide, vi. 

342 et seq., with notes. 
4. July 14, 1790, when the King swore fidelity to the new constitution. 



404 NOTES TO PAGES 301-303. 

VI. 

Calais, August 15, 1802. 
3, II. Cf. Prelude, xi. 358-364, and note to previous sonnet. 

VII. 
Composed on the Beach near Calais. 
The spirit of adoration, so restful, so calm, so intense, pervading 
this sonnet, is eminently Wordsworthian. The concluding lines ex- 
press that belief in the divinity of childish intuition, which is so prom- 
inent in We are Seven and the Ode. 



On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic. 

1. The result of the fourth crusade, in which only French and Vene- 
tians took part, was that the Cyclades, a part of Thessaly, some of the 
Byzantine cities, and about one half of the city of Constantinople fell 
to Venice. — Knight. 

2. Venice, in virtue of her naval power, was once mistress of the 
Mediterranean. The spoils and trade of the East enriched the city. 

4, 5. See Ruskin, Stones of Venice. 

In 452 Attila invaded Venetia and destroyed its capital, Aquileia; 
the fugitives from the cities fled to the islands in the lagoons and the 
Gulf of Venice ; they soon became independent and chose their own 
consuls ; in 697 they chose their first doge. 

7, 8 In II 77 she gained a great victory over Otho, son of Fred- 
erick Barbarossa; in gratitude for this the Pope Alexander III. gave 
the Doge Ziani a ring, and instituted the ceremony of "marrying the 
Adriatic," by which was signified the supremacy of Venice. In May, 
1797, the French troops took possession of the city, which no hostile 
force had ever before entered, and Venice lost her independence. 

Cf. Mrs. Oliphant's Makers of Venice. 



To Toussaint L'Ouverture. 

The life of the Hero of St. Domingo is one of the most thrillmg in 
the annals of history. Born of slave parents, having learned to read 
and write from a fellow slave, he joined the negro army in maintaining 



NOTES TO PAGES 303, 304. 405 

their rights, and rose to be brigadier-general ; in 1793 Hayti declared 
for France, and slaves were freed. In 1796 he was made commander 
of the French army of St. Domingo, and conquered the English and 
Spanish armies. When Napoleon attempted to reinstate slavery Tous- 
saint resisted, and in 1S02 he was declared an outlaw and captured by 
treachery; without trial he was cast into the dungeon at the Castle of 
Joux and left to die of starvation. 

See Toiissaint VOuverture, by Whittier. 

In this "soul-animating strain" passion, with a step as stately as 
that of Milton, rises into an outburst of noble exultation. A divine 
sympathy, overleaping the narrow limits of nationality, breathes from 
every line. 

X. 

September, 1802, near Dover. 

In Dorothy's Journal we have the following: *' On 29th August left 
Calais at twelve o'clock in the morning for Dover. . . . Bathed and 
sat on the Dover cliffs, and looked upon France; we could see the 
shores almost as plain as if it were but an English lake." 

No man of his time, statesman, philosopher, or poet, saw with such 
unerring insight into the great moral forces that determine the cur- 
rents of history. — Hon. George F. Hoar. 



Written in London, September, 1802. 

Wordsworth had a high ideal of his art, because he had a high 
ideal of man. Perhaps in none of his sonnets are there so many les- 
sons for us in this mechanical and utilitarian age. 

See Shakespeare, Sonnet CXLVI. 

There tiny pleasures occupy the place 

Of glories and of duties, as the feet 

Of fabled fairies, when the sun goes down, 

Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers strove by day. 

Landor. 

The work Wordsworth did — and I say it in all reverence — was the 
work which the Baptist did when he came to the pleasure-laden citi- 
zens of Jerusalem to work a reformation. — Rev. F. W. Robertson. 



4o6 NOTES TO PAGES 304-306. 



London, 1802. 

The procession of the verse in this noble sonnet is easy and grace- 
ful, rising throughout the major part into the full organ tone ; then 
in the minor falling gently away, calming, regulating, and restrain- 
ing, with '* artlessness which only art commands." For splendor of 
thought, vigor of style, and beauty of purpose it is unsurpassed. 



XIII. 
" Great men have been among us-" 

Goethe says that the theme of all human history is the contest be- 
tween belief and unbelief; that periods in which belief prevails are 
inspiring, while periods in which unbelief predominates furnish but 
little food for the spirit of man. 

Cf. Prelude, vii. 512-543. 

XIV. 
"It is not to be thought of that the Flood." 

In this time of an expected invasion by Napoleon, when the heart 
of England was beating high, and signal beacons were flashing the 
summons to arms, this calm, clear, triumphant faith in freedom was 
uttered. 

Cf. Coleridge's Ode on France. 

XV. 

" When I have borne in Memory." 

In the history of Wordsworthian criticism there are to be found three 
sets of charges against him — Simplicity and Transcendentalism ; 
Pantheism and High Churchism; Liberalism and Conservatism; now 
the truth of the matter is that none of these were well founded. In 
this sonnet we have a mingling of the aristocratic and democratic, 
resulting in intense and lofty love of country. 

Cf. Prelude, xi. 105, — " Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive," etc. 



NOTES TO PAGES 306, 307. 4^7 



1803. 

XVI. 
Composed at Castle- 

The town of Peebles is on the banks of the Tweed. After break- 
fast walked up the river to Neidpath Castle, about a mile and a half 
from the town. The castle stands upon a green hill overlooking the 
Tweed — a strong, square-towered edifice, neglected and desolate 
though not in ruin, the garden overgrown with grass, and the high 
wall that fenced it broken down ; but I need not describe the scene, 
for William has done it better than I could do in a sonnet which he 
wrote the same day. — Dorothy WordswortJis Journal ^ Sept. 18, 1803. 

See Mei7iorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803, and notes; also Intro- 
duction to Canto I. of Scott's Marmion^ 1-36. 

XVII. 
"There is a Bondage worse, far worse to bear." 

Napoleon had been elected Consul for life, and was making rapid 
strides toward absolute power ; by his interference in the affairs of 
Switzerland, England claimed that he had violated the treaty of 
Amiens, and in May, 1803, war was declared. 

Wordsworth's moral earnestness never encourages one to break 
with the world and live in the seclusion of the cloister. He strove to 
serve his country and mankind by teaching that life is the workshop 
in which is fashioned the armor of the soul. 

Cf. Horace, Ode XXII., — "Integer vitae scelerisque purus." 



. XVIII. 
October, 1803. 

What a country longs for is personalities, grand persons to counter- 
act its materialities. — Emerson. 



4o8 NOTES TO PAGES 308, 309. 



"England! the Time is come when thou shouldst wean." 
What moral courage was required to utter the " odious truth " con- 
tained in the major part of this sonnet ! He was equally undaunted 
in his Tract on the Convention of Cintra, which Canning declared to be 
the finest piece of political eloquence since Burke. 

XX. 

To the Men of Kent, October, 1803. 

The " men of Kent " were the inhabitants of that part of the country 
nearest France. On this coast the Romans landed, and " Cantium " 
was the recipient of many privileges at their hands Later the Saxons 
fought their first battles there. These people could not be conquered 
by the Normans. The Saxon law of gavelkind is peculiar to this 
county; by it the estates are inherited equally by all the sons. 

It does the heart good to read these fine and pure and true and 
manly words, from a man whose every word and every thought and 
every act were the words and thoughts and acts of manly, true-spirited, 
high-minded Englishmen. — Rev. F. W. Robertson. 



In the Pass of Killicranky. 
An invasio7i being expected, October, 1803. 

Thursday, September 8. — Before breakfast we walked to the Pass 
of Killicranky. . . . Every one knows that this Pass is famous in 
military history. When we were travelling in Scotland an invasion 
was hourly looked for, and one could not but think with some re- 
gret of the times when from the now depopulated Highlands forty or 
fifty thousand men might have been poured down for the defence 
of the country. ... I will transcribe a sonnet suggested to William 
by this place and written in October, 1803. — Dorothy Wordsworth's 
Journal. 

Professor Shairp, alluding to the depopulation of the Highlands 
which began early in this century, says • "The old native Gael who 
used to live grouped in hamlets in the glens . . . were dispossessed 
of their holdings to make way for Lowland farmers. One question 
only was asked — What shall grow the largest amount of mutton for 



NOTES TO PAGES 309, 310. 4^9 

the Glasgow and Liverpool markets? In the glens which formerly 
sent forth whole regiments you could not now get a single man to 
wear her Majesty's uniform." 

See Professor Blackie, The Highlander's Lament. 

The following is from Last Leave-taking of the Mountaitts, by Duncan 
Maclntyre, the Bard of Glenorchy : — 

** Yestreen as I walked the mountain, 

O the thoughts that arose in me ; 
For the people I loved that used to be there 

In the desert, no more could I see. 
Ah ! little I dreamed that Ben 

Such changes could undergo, 
That I should see it covered with sheep, 

And the world would deceive me so ! " 

See note to Address to Kilchurn Castle. 



1806. 

xxir. 

" Nuns fret not at their Convent's Narrow Room." 

Wordsworth felt that there existed prejudices against the sonnet, 
and that it lay under a slight that was undeserved: he therefore de- 
termined to reinstate it in its former place of dignity and power. 

See note on Personal 7alk. 

This is one of those doctrinal poems, abounding in Mr. Words- 
worth's works, which some persons complain that they cannot under- 
stand, having read them probably as rapidly as they would any erotic 
effusion of any glowing gentleman who writes verses. — Sir Henry 
Taylor. 

Cf. Scorn not the Sonnet, 1827. 

XXIII. 
Composed by the side of Grasmere Lake. 
Cf. Matthew Arnold's Quiet Work. 



4IO NOTES TO PAGES 310-312. 

XXIV. 
"The World is too much with us." 

Wordsworth does not condemn commercial activity in general, but 
seeing clearly that an inordinate greed for gain often led to specula- 
tion which was little short of gambling, and in which the entire life 
was engrossed — man entering into slavery to his passions, — he ut- 
tered these solemn truths, *' to free, arouse, dilate." 

Nature will not have us fret or fume. When we come out of the 
caucus, or the bank, or the Abolition convention, or the Transcen- 
dental Club, into the fields and woods, she says to us, " So hot, my 
little sir." — Emerson. 

See Browning's Grammarian's Funeral. 

14. Cf. Spenser, Colin Clouts Come Home Again, 1. 245, — Prof. A. 
S. Cook. 

XXV.-XXVIII. 
Personal Talk. 

Wordsworth found a new use for the sonnet, and turned its force into 
fresh channels. While others had addressed several sonnets to the 
same person, no one until his time had so united a series that, while 
each sonnet was complete in itself, it at the same time formed a stanza 
of a larger poem. The four following, entitled Personal Talk, illus- 
trate this unity, evolution, and completeness. 

The picture of Wordsworth's domestic life is one of the brightest 
in the history of literary genius. Free, joyous, and contented in their 
cottage home — which was even less pretentious than that of many of 
the humble dalesmen — they gave to the world an example of " plain 
living and high thinking." Living in communion with her who was 
dearer to him than life and light ; cheered by the loved presence of 
the "dear, dear sister," with an occasional visit from the sailor brother 
or Coleridge, what need had he to enter the society of "the world's 
true Worldlings ! " One whose companions are Spenser and Shake- 
speare will have no time to make the acquaintance of scandal-mongers, 
those assassins of character. While the Poet recognizes the neces- 
sity of themes which are concrete rather than abstract, he would se- 
lect such as do not foster the " comment and the gibe," but such as 
conduct the mind from the " seen and the temporal, to the unseen and 
the eternal." Who can believe but that " great gains " result from 
such a life ! 

Lines 9, 10, ii, and 12 of Sonnet XXVIIL are cut upon the pedestal 
of the Poet's statue in Westminster Abbey. 



NOTES TO PAGES 313-315. 411 



XXIX.-XXXI. 
To Sleep. 

" The three sonnets to Sleep," says Sara Coleridge, " are very beau- 
tiful and peculiar ; not Miltonic, or Shakespearean, or Petrarchian, 
nor like the productions of any later sonnetteers, but entirely Words- 
worthian and inimitable." 

Cf. Macbeth, ii, 2 ; Midsummer Nighfs Dream, iii. 2 ; Henry IV., 
Part II., iii. i ; Archbishop Trench, Ode to Sleep. 

XXXII. 
To the Memory of Raisley Calvert. 

In 1794, when Wordsworth was unsettled in his plans for the future, 
his friend Calvert was taken ill, and he went to care for him. 
Calvert was steward to the Duke of Norfolk, and although " himself 
no poet," he could appreciate genius in others ; Wordsworth re- 
mained with him until his death, and on opening his will it was found 
that ;^900 had been bequeathed him ; this was a turning-point in the 
Poet's career, and the gift, in its importance, was second only to that 
earlier " gift of God," Dorothea. It enabled him to have a home, and 
in 1795 ^^ settled with his sister at Racedown. 

See note to Lines Left upoti a Seat in a Yroj-tree, 1795. 

In the Prelude (xiv. 355-369) Wordsworth has recorded his grati- 
tude to Calvert for thus " clearing a passage for him." 



November, 1806. 

Napoleon's victory at Jena, October 14, had completely shattered 
the power of Prussia, England's sole ally on the Continent; and in 
November Napoleon issued his declaration of war against this only re- 
maining fortress of liberty. When many, considering the cause to be 
hopeless, were ready to yield a base submission, from the solitude of 
the North there came a voice, clear, loud, and strong, exulting in a 
sublime faith in the might of right, calling upon England to arouse 
herself. 



412 NOTES TO PAGES 315, 316. 



Admonition. 

Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have 
happened to be enamoured of some beautiful place of retreat in the 
country of the Lakes. — W. W. 

Cf. Highland Hut, 1831. 

The light which shone and the voice which called from heaven on 
Saul of Tarsus were not more distinctly influences which uncondition- 
ally seized and swayed the apostle, than was the Power in the out- 
ward world which surrounded, revealed itself, and made the poet-seer 
its own, its daily vassal and its impassioned voice. — Professor 
Veitch. 

1807. 

XXXV. 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland. 

This was composed while pacing to and fro between the Hall of 
Coleorton, then rebuilding, and the principal farm-house of the estate, 
in which we lived for nine or ten months. — W. W. 

See notes to The Nightingale, 1807. 

In 1802 Napoleon crushed out the liberties of Switzerland : in 1807 
he was master of Europe, and was making gigantic preparations to 
invade England. 

Here is passion of a great thought taken up in stillness into a great 
imagination. Passion must indeed burn strongly in the heart before 
it can fling its glow thus high into the loftier regions of the intelli- 
gence. That is the reason why such poetry seems cold to readers 
whose narrower sympathies can recognize passion only in its interjec- 
tional form. Its white heat is to them snow. — Aubrey de Vere. 

This is what I call perfect workmanship, ... not an image, not a 
word, but what helps the vision of the idea. — Dr. Hudson. 

XXXVI. 

To Thomas Clarkson, on the Final Passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the 
Slave Trade. 

Clarkson's work began when he selected his subject for his Eatin 
essay at St. John's College, Cambridge ; " Anne liceat invitos in 



NOTES TO PAGES 316, 317. 413 

servitutem dare ? " From that time he devoted himself to the aboli- 
tion of the slave trade. The most powerful opposition arose against 
him, and not until the accession of Fox, in 1806, did the cause gain 
advantage in Parliament ; in March, 1807, the Government declared 
the slave trade illegal. 

When Wordsworth's soul was stirred with the greater passions 
of humanity he rises to a height of majestic passion, his words have 
the stately step of the gods — they burn like the bush on Sinai, white, 
but unconsumed. — Rev. Stopford Brooke. 



1811. 



" Here Pause : the Poet claims at least this Praise." 

Napoleon's grand march through Europe dazzled the eyes of weak 
men everywhere, and many seemed to lose the power to discriminate 
between right and wrong, between greatness and power ; the scales 
of conscience were tampered with, and admiration for that Enemy of 
virtue became weightier than virtue itself. Wordsworth felt that such 
a condition of political morality merited the severest indignation of 
all true men. The true poet is the true man. 

" The poet in a golden clime was born, 
With golden stars above ; 

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
The love of love." 



1815. 

XXXVIII. 

To B. R. Haydon. 

No artist ever had a higher ideal of his calling, or pursued it with 
more unswerving devotion, than Wordsworth. " It was the main, the 
serious, the solemn business of his being." He believed that a poet 
was both born and made ; that poetry was a divine gift, " not to be 
acquired by labor and learning, but adorned with both." Possessing 
powers which — had he chosen to use them for that end — would have 
secured for him immediate popularity, through long years of contempt 



414 NOTES TO PAGE 317. 

and ridicule Wordsworth resolutely withstood all temptation. When 
his few admirers were troubled by the coldness with which his work 
was received, he replied : " Make yourselves at rest respecting me ; I 
speak the truths the world must feel at last." Wordsworth's idea of 
the call and mission of the poet should be contrasted wi^ that of 
Pope. " Poetry and criticism," says Pope, " are by no means the uni- 
versal concern of the world, but only the affair of idle men who 
write in their closets, and of idle men who read there. . . . All the 
advantages I can think of accruing from a genius for Poetry, are an 
agreeable power of self-amusement, when a man is idle or alone, — the 
privilege of being admitted into the best company." 

A more brilliant or a more pathetic career than that of Haydon is 
hardly to be found. Confessedly a genius of the highest order; with 
a love for his art which has never been surpassed ; sublimely cour- 
ageous in his devotion to what he considered to be his duty as a 
leader of "Historic Painting;" surrounded by the most steadfast 
friends and the most subtle enemies ; now upon the highest wave of 
favor, now lodging in a debtor's jail, and at last driven to despair at 
being cheated of his deserts ; repeating the wail of Lear — 
" Stretch me no longer on this tough world," — 

he takes his own life. 

At the time this sonnet was sent him he was suffering a cruel per- 
secution at the hands of some members of the Royal Academy be- 
cause he had discomfited them in their attempts to cast doubt upon 
the genuineness of the Elgin marbles, and had said, " No more sigji 
painting now." The petty spite and jealousy which were exhibited 
by the authorities in refusing to give his work a fair showing before 
the public seem hardly credible. Cowper wrote : " I blush for a state 
of society in which talents and genius such as yours meet with such 
a reward." 

That Haydon was often indiscreet his friends acknowledge, but even 
his indiscretions were " born of high-mindedness and a jealousy for 
good." 

*' His singleness of aim 
Ought to have frightened into brooded shame 
A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood." 

What the sympathy of a man like Wordsworth meant to him is 
shown in his correspondence. On receiving this sonnet he wrote : 
" It is the highest honor that ever was paid or ever can be paid to me. 
You are the first English poet who has ever done complete justice to 



NOTES TO PAGES 317, 318, 4^5 

my delightful art." Again, when he was so successfully advancing his 
great object by his lectures on art, which were received with such 
enthusiasm at Oxford, he wrote : " To whom shall I dedicate them ? 
To William Wordsworth, who raised up their author mto the eye of 
his country when he was oppressed and persecuted." Again, when 
alluding to the honors of his lite, he said . " The first and the last are 
the greatest — the sonnets of Wordsworth and my reception at tlie 
University of Oxford; but the first is the/rj/ and will ever remain so." 

Besides Wordsworth, Keats manfully supported the great painter. 
See his sonnets addressed to Haydon 

ThQ Judgment of Solomon and Chrisfs Entry into Jerusalem showed 
conclusively that Haydon was the first historical painter that Eng- 
land had produced. The latter is now the property of the Catholic 
Cathedral in Cincinnati. "The original study of Wordsworth (whom 
Haydon introduced into the picture in the character of a devout be- 
liever) is in the possession of Mr. J. S. Pearce, of London , on it in 
the artist's writing is — 

" ' Wordsworth, 

For Entry into Jerusalem, 181 7.' " — Knight. 

See Browning's Popularity, and Carlyle's The Hero as Poet. 

This sonnet, the title of which in the early editions of Wordsworth's 
works was To R. B. Haydon, is alluded to by Haydon, in a letter to 
Moxon the publisher, as follows : " He [Wordsworth] dedicates his 
sonnets to R. B. Haydon. My name is ^. R. Haydon." 



Catherine Wordsworth. 

Wordsworth had already tasted of the cup of affliction in the death 
of his brother; in 1812 he was made to drink deep draughts, for in 
that year his little daughter Catherine, and his second son, Thomas, 
a lad of but six years, died. They were buried in the church-yard at 
Grasmere. In the epitaph we find these lines : — 

« O blessed Lord ! 
Support us ! teach us calmly to resign 
What we possessed, and now is wholly Thine." 

Wordsworth at this time was living at the Parsonage, opposite the 
Church, and the proximity to the graves of his little ones continually 
recalled to him his losses : he accordingly removed to Rydal Mount. 



4l6 NOTES TO PAGES 318, 319. 

1820. 

XL. 
Oxford, May 30, 1820. 
Although Words worth was loyal to his own University, yet he could 
sing the praises of her rival. 

See Boase's excellent history of Oxford, in Historic Towns. 



" Sole Listener, Duddon." 

The remarkable series entitled The River Duddon includes thirty- 
four sonnets. The local allusions in these can be easily identified. 
Wordsworth fixed the rise of the Duddon near three shire-stones — 
the meeting-point of the counties Westmoreland, Cumberland, and 
Lancashire. In 18S7 I explored the " birthplace " of this stream, with 
the aid of the excellent notes of Mr. Herbert Rix, to whom I am in- 
debted for many of the following notes. 

Wrynose Bottom, the scene of this sonnet, is wild and lonely, yet 
everywhere you meet the "tripping lambs," — better scalers of the 
crags than you are likely to prove. At Cockley Beck there is a farm- 
house, possibly the " cottage rude and gray." 

XLII. 
Seathwaite Chapel. 

With the Poet as our guide, we leave the springs of the Duddon 
and pass the first of the three sets of " Stepping Stones," the " Faery 
Chasm," and come to a crag known to the dalesmen as The Pe7i,ixovc\. 
which Mr. Rix thinks Wordsworth's " Open Prospect " was had. From 
it we get views of the rich sylvan beauty of the Duddon Valley; Hard- 
knott, with its remains of a Roman camp, Stoneside, with its Druid 
Circle, and Seathwaite, with its venerable yews and old gray chapel, 
are in sight. 

At Seathwaite, in 1709, was born Robert Walker, better known in 
the Lake-land as Wonderful Walker. He was the youngest of twelve 
children, and being of delicate frame was bred a scholar and took 
holy orders; he was appointed to the cure of Seathwaite, the value 
of which was £^ a year. Besides ministering to the spiritual needs 
of his people he taught school in the chapel, and Wordsworth says 
that when in the winter the pupils suffered from the cold he sent them 



NOTES TO PAGES 319-321. 417 

to the parsonage or for a run on the mountain-side. In the evening he 

was busy teasing, spinning, and weaving wool. His pew in the chapel 
is still to be seen upholstered with the cloth woven at the parsonage. 
He assisted the dalesmen in their husbandry, and at clipping time 
plied the shears. On Sundays broth was served at the parsonage to 
those of the congregation who had come from a distance. He pur- 
sued his studies by a light made of rushes dipped in tallow ; and 
Wordsworth, who was no mean critic, says that his style was " cor- 
rect, simple, and animated." 

His wife died in January, 1802, aged ninety-three; and in June of 
the same year he passed away, in the ninety-third year of his age and 
the sixty-seventh of his curacy. 

See Wordsworth's Prose Works, vol. iii. ; also the Excursion^ book 
vii. 

12-14. See Chaucer, Prologite to Canterbury Tales ; Herbert, Priest 
to the Temple, and Goldsmith, Deserted Village. — Knight. 

XLIII. 

" Return, Content." 

Wordsworth says that he first became acquainted with the Duddon 
by accompanying a friend from Hawkshead on a fishing excursion. 
Cf. Prelude, i. 269-300. 

XLIV. 

"Who swerves from Innocence." 

5-8. In regard to these lines, Wordsworth says that oddly enough 
this imagination was realized in 1840, when he visited this district 
with his wife and daughter and others. On leaving Seathwaite the 
party separated, and Mrs. Wordsworth, taking an opposite direction, 
was tempted to an eminence, expecting there to await them on their 
return; they, however, did not find her until well into the evening. 



Afterthought. 

It is not possible to ascertain from what point the Poet took this 
view of the Duddon. Rev. H. D. Rawnsley thinks that it may have 
been the summit of a hill just above Broughton, and that the sight of 
the little Broughton church would give rise to the thought that the 
" elements must vanish." 

27 



4l8 NOTES TO PAGES 321-323. 

The last stanza of Whittier's poem on Wordsworth strikes the 
same note as this sonnet : — 

" Art builds on sand ; the works of pride 
And human passion change and fall ; 
But that which shares the life of God, 
With Him surviveth all." 

It was in this faith that he quietly reposed in his domestic life, 
and by it enhanced all the faithful affection for wife and sister, chil- 
dren and brother, that nowhere in English poetry burns with a lovelier 
or a purer light. — Rev. Stopford Brooke. 



1821. 

XLVI. 
Introduction to Ecclesiastical Sonnets. 

While the ecclesiastical sonnets, begun in 1821 and continued 
through the Poet's later life, do not often rise to the height of his 
best work, yet there are among them a few, which for charm of dic- 
tion, united with depth and delicacy of sentiment, are unsurpassed. 

XLVII. 
Seclusion. 
See Legends of Saxon Saints, Aubrey de Vera. 

XLVIII. 
Mutability. 
Cf. Browning, Prospice. 

XLIX.-LI. 
Inside King's College Chapel, Cambridge. 
Unless one has passed some time in the presence of England's noble 
castles and inspiring cathedrals, he is apt to wonder at the place they 
occupy in the literature and the life of her people. In the seclusion 
of the cloisters and quadrangles of Oxford and Cambridge the human 
past, consecrated by the memories of kings and queens, of saints and 
sages, of poets and scholars, fills the soul with awe. Wordsworth, in 
reverencing King's College Chapel — the noblest and most inspiring 



NOTES TO PAGES 323, 321. 419 

structure ever erected for collegiate worship — has yielded to the 
spell of this human past. The history of this magnificent chapel — 
the last of the thoroughly mediseval structures erected at Cambridge 
— is so remarkable that I cannot refrain from giving it somewhat in 
detail. 

On the loth of February, 1441, about one year after his founding of 
Eton College, Henry VI. signed the charter for the first foundation of 
the Royal College of St. Nicholas, but the site chosen was so limited 
that in 1443 ^^^ granted a charter to King's College, in order that poor 
scholars from Eton might be maintained at Cambridge free of ex- 
pense. At the present time a certain number of Etonians are annu- 
ally sent to King's College. The provisions as seen in the will of 
Henry VI. are the result of an examination of William Wykeham's 
College at Winchester: this document is remarkable for the accuracy 
and detail of the King's plans, even specifying the planting of trees 
and flowers. The first stone of the building was laid by the King him- 
self on July 28, 1446. The designer of the structure is unknown; it 
is conjectured, from the personal supervision and alterations made 
by him at Eton, that Henry himself was the architect. The chapel, 
288 feet long and 40 feet wide, was to form the north of the quad- 
rangle, the east and west sides of which were to join it, while the 
south was to be occupied by chambers. The material, quarried from 
the sanie place as that used for Eton, is white limestone, and marks 
the limit of Henry's work, which ceased at his deposition. Little was 
done to the building for nearly half a centur}', until, at the close of his 
reign, Henry VII. determined to do honor to his uncle by completing 
it. In 1508 the work was resumed, and carried on by the executors 
of his will ; the walls, the great vault, the battlements, and pinnacles 
were completed. On entering the city from Girton in 1S87, these 
tOA'ers were the first to greet my sight. I saw — 

" The long-roofed chapel of King's College lift 
Turrets and pinnacles in answering files." 

Henry VIII. was now solicited by the college to complete the work, 
and the interior was finished. Of the twenty-six windows, twenty- 
five contain four pictures, each in "Oryent colours and Imagery of 
the Story of the olde lawe and the newe lawe after the fourme of the 
glasse windowes of the Kinge's newe chapell at Westmynster." The 
windows are the most important specimen of English glass-painting 
in existence. These glorious paintings are in two series around the 
chapel — the upper illustrating scenes from the Old Testament, the 



420 NOTES TO PAGES 324, 325. 

lower, scenes from the New Testament. Such is the deliracy of tint 
and the graceful blending of colors, that while the brighter hues pre- 
vail, there is the most perfect harmony, the shading is so exceptional 
as to be transparent, and the fretted roof and arches glimmer, 

' ' dyed 
In the soft checkerings of a sleepy light." 

The figures are larger than life, and the expression is strong and 
beautiful — 

" A glorious work of fine intelligence." 

That these windows should have escaped the fanaticism of the Puri- 
tan soldiers quartered in the city is almost a miracle. The work of 
Henry VII. can be detected by the presence of the red rose, the haw- 
thorn bush, and the crown, in the tracery of the windows; while the 
weaving together of the initials of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn on 
the organ screen and stalls tells its own tale. 

8. St. PauVs Cathedral. 



1823. 



" Not Love, not War." 

It may well be set down to the credit of Wordsworth's Muse that 
she does not affect "the perfumed chambers of the great;" that she 
lets the sumptuous chariots and equipages wheel by unnoticed ; and 
that she rather shuns than seeks " the canopies of costly state," the 
proud saloons of fashion and high life, preferring the lowly cottage 
where modest worth and " honorable brows bedewed with toil " have 
their abode, and eat their bread in purity and gentleness of heart. — 
Dr. Hudson. 

Cf. Highland Hut, 1831. 

1827. 

LIII. 

To Roth a Q . 

Rotha was the daughter of Mr. Edward Quillinan, who, in 1S41, 
married the Poet's daughter Dora. 

See Address to my Infant Daughter Dora, 1804. 



NOTES TO PAGES 325, 326. 421 

10. Rotha is the river that unites the three sister-lakes, — Grasmere, 
Rydal, and Windermere. 

Liv. 
To , in her Seventieth Year. 

Lady Fitzgerald, as described to me by Lady Beaumont. — W. W. 

This sonnet answers admirably Aubrey de Vere's definition : " It 
is in poetry what the Collect is in devotion ; " within its compass 
there is " meditation and observation, imagination and passion." 



" Scorn not the Sonnet." 

Composed almost extempore in a short walk on the western side 
of Rydal Lake. 

It is not often that criticism is presented to us in the form of the 
highest poetry and condensed into fourteen lines. This sonnet alone 
is sufficient to vindicate Wordsworth's claim to mastery in this form 
of poetry ; for in it we have history enriched with the finest touches of 
the imagination, and transmitted in diction pure and strong, while the 
music varies from the most powerful animation to the softest cadences 
of metrical harmony — 

" Rising loudly 
Up to its chmax, and then dying proudly." 



1830. 

LVI. 
To the Author's Portrait. 

The portrait here alluded to was painted by H. W Pickersgill, R. A., 
at the request of the Master and Fellows of St. John's College, Cam- 
bridge. It represents the Poet seated under a high bank, with Lake 
scenery in the background; he is clad in a black cloak lined with red, 
while the left hand, holding a pencil, rests on some papers. The fea- 
tures are sharp profile, as the face is turned to the right. The picture 
hangs in the Dining Hall. 

The last six lines of this sonnet are not written for poetical effect, 
but as a matter of fact, which, in more than one instance, could not 
escape my notice in the servants of the house. — W W 



422 NOTES TO PAGES 327, 328. 

1831. 



The Trossachs. 

For an account of this visit to Scotland, see note to Yarrcno Revisi- 
ted, and On the Departiwe of Sir Walter Scott. Wordsworth says that 
the remembrance of his recent farewell to Sir Walter Scott colored 
this and the two following sonnets. Wordsworth first saw the Tros- 
sachs in company with his sister and Coleridge. See Me?}iorials of a 
Tour ill Scotland, 1803. 

In Sonnet LI V. we had the critical and the descriptive ; here we have 
the moral and the descriptive. 

Mr. Walter Bagehot cites this poem as an illustration of Words- 
worth's purity of style. 

See Stepping Westward, written on the same ground in 1803. 



The Pibroch's Note. 
The following is from Duncan Maclntyre's poem, Ben Doran ; it is 
fitted to the pibroch's tune : — 

Honor o'er all Bens 
On Bendoran be ! 
Of all hills the sun kens, 
Beautifullest he; 
Mountain long and sweeping. 
Nooks the red deer keeping, 
Light on braesides sleeping ; 

There I 've watched delightedly. 

Translated by Professor Shairp. 



Highland Hut. 

Wordsworth, the great poet of our times, has gone to common life, 
to the feelings of our universal nature, to the obscure and neglected 
portions of society, for beautiful and touching themes. The grand 
truth which pervades his poetry is that the beautiful is not confined 
to the rare, the new, the distant — to scenery and modes of life open 
only to the few. He is the poet of humanity ; he teaches reverence 



NOTES TO PAGES 328, 329. 423 

for our universal nature ; he breaks down the factitious barriers be- 
tween human hearts.— Wm. E. Channing, D. D. 



1833. 

LX. 

To the River Derwent. 

Although this sonnet was written in 18 19, Wordsworth republished 
it as introductory to the following tour. 

In the summer of 1833 Wordsworth, accompanied by his son, the 
Rev. John Wordsworth, and Henry Crabb Robinson, made a short 
tour in Scotland. His course was down the Uerwent to Whitehaven 
and the Isle of Man, thence to Staffa and lona, returning to England 
by Loch Awe, through Ayrshire to Carlisle, and by the river Eden 
and UUswater. This and the following four sonnets mark his route. 
The Derwent, the river of his youth, rises in Borrowdale near the 
Eagle's Crag. 

See Prelude, i. 269-300; also note to The Sparrows Nest, iboi. 

LXI. 
In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth. 
Wordsworth's mother died in 1778 and his father in 1783; they 
were buried at Cockermouth. 
See Sonnet LX. and references. 



LXII. 
Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle. 

Cockermouth Castle stands on an eminence not far from the manor- 
house in which Wordsworth was born. It was built by the first lord 
of Allerdale, in the reign of William I , as a Border defence against 
Cumberland's old enemies, the Scots. It was captured by Douglas in 
1387, and in 1568 was the prison of Mary Queen of Scots. It is one 
of the finest castle ruins in England. 

See Sonnet LX., references; also Prelude, i. 269-287, and Historic 
Towns, Carlisle, chap. v. Cf. To a Butterfly. 



424 .VOTES TO PAGES 330, 331. 



Mary Queen of Scots. 
Landing at the month of the Derwent, Workington. 

Mary, in making her escape from Scotland after the battle at Lang- 
side, 1568, made a fruitless effort to reach Dumbarton, and then sought 
refuge in Galloway. After a ride of ninety miles she reached the 
Solway ; then jumping into a fishing boat, with a handful of attendants 
she landed at Workington, and under escort of the Warden and gentry 
of Cockermouth before evening was safe in the Castle of Carlisle. 

See Historic Towns, Carlisle, chap. vii. 

LXIV. 
"'There!' said the Stripling. 
" It is remarkable," says Wordsworth, " that though Burns lived 
some time here, he nowhere adverts to the splendid prospects stretch- 
ing towards the sea, and bounded by the peaks of Arran, which he 
must have had daily before his eyes. Soon after we had passed Moss- 
giel farm we crossed the Ayr murmuring and winding through a narrow 
woody hollow." 
See Burns's Daisy. 

LXV. 

" Most Sweet it is." 

This sonnet reveals to us the method of the Poet's work, and if 
rightly understood will show us the grounds of his criticism upon 
Scott's method, which he consid-red as too conscious approaching 
Nature with pencil and note-book and jotting down an inventory of 
her charms. " In every scene," says Wordsworth, " many of the most 
brilliant details are but accidental ; a true eye for Nature does not 
note them, or at least does not dwell on them." Matthew Arnold 
says : " This sonnet cannot be matched from Milton." 

See Essays on Poetry, vol. ii. chap, xv., by Aubrey de Vera. 

1837. 

LXVI. 
The Pine of Monte Mario, at Rome. 
In March, 1837, Wordsworth, in company with his friend, Henry 
Crabb Robinson, visited Italy. 



NOTES TO PAGES 2^-ZZ2>. 425 

This pine had been bought by Sir George Beaumont to save it from 
the axe. Wordsworth says that he could not resist the temptation 
to embrace the trunk of this interesting monument of his friend's feel- 
ings for the beauties of Nature. 

See Memoirs of Wordsworth. 



1838. 

LXVII. 
Composed on a May morning, 183S. 

This sonnet was composed upon the ''Far Terrace " at Rydal Mount, 
"where," says Wordsworth, "I have murmured out many thousands 
of verses." 

Wordsworth's soul, " wedded to this goodly universe in love and 
holy passion," could find no sphere from which the divine life was ex- 
cluded, no sphere where joy was not "in widest commonalty spread." 
It is this element in Wordsworth's work that makes it so uplifting. 

LXVIII. 

" Blest Statesman He" 

Cf. Character of the Happy Warrior. 

The earth waits for exalted manhood. 
— Emerson. 

1841. 

LXIX., LXX. 
To a Painter. 

Miss Margaret Gillies, the accomplished artist, was a friend of the 
Wordsworths, and often visited in the family. She painted several 
portraits of the Poet ; the first was at the suggestion of Moon, the 
publisher, for the purpose of engraving. Wordsworth was so much 
pleased with it that he requested that it be reproduced, and Mrs. 
Wordsworth's added. It was to this portrait that these sonnets refer. 

See She was a Phajitom of Delight, 



42 6 NOTES TO PAGE 334. 



1842. 



A Poet ! ' 



He would be a very bold man who would assert that Wordsworth, 
when at his best, was not an artist in a very high degree, and yet 
in the writings of no other poet do we find so clearly illustrated the 
limits between poetry and verse. In both of his long poems we have 
poetry of as lofty character as our language can boast, and in the same 
poems we also meet passages of the plainest verse. 

The subtle relation existing between the conscious and the uncon- 
scious elements in Art is a mystery ; it is generally true, however, that 
as the one increases the other diminishes. Thus the prevalence of 
the one or the other of these tendencies — conscious effect or lofty 
inspiration, spiritual disease or spiritual health, reason or faith — con- 
stitutes the ebb and flow in English poetry. 

In the first part of this sonnet Wordsworth gives us something 
of the method of the poets of the Restoration, who, as Keats says, 
taught that to write poetry was 

" to smooth, inlay, and clip and fit. 
easy was the task, 
A hundred handicraftsmen wore the mask 
Of Poesy." 1 

Of these writers Mr. Gosse says that for the direct appeal to Na- 
ture they substituted generalities and second-hand allusions, and the 
result of coining these conventional counters for groups of ideas was 
that the personal, the exact, was lost in literature. 

It was against such a perversion of Art that Wordsworth did battle ; 
he insisted that true Art was the product of the whole nature, intel- 
lect, sensibility, and will, aglow with a lofty spiritual imagination 
where "form is lost in the effulgence of the soul breathing through 
it." In that battle there was needed "the service of a mind and 
heart heroically fashioned." 

Mr. Gosse again says that the poetry of these classical versemen 
received blow upon blow from the naturalistic poets, until by Words- 
worth and Coleridge it was destroyed altogether. 

^ Sleep and Poetry. 



NOTES TO PAGE 334. 427 

In the valedictory sonnet to the edition of 1838 we have the method 
and the aim of Wordsworth's work : — 

" If in this book Fancy and Truth agree ; 
If simple Nature trained by careful Art 
Through it have won a passage to thy heart ; 
Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee." 

Dr. Moir, the Scottish author and critic, says : " Never, perhaps, in 
the whole range of literary history, from Homer downwards, did any 
individual, throughout the course of a long life, dedicate himself to 
poetry with a devotion so pure, so perfect, and so uninterrupted as 
he did." 

Consult Wordsworth as an Artist, in Hudson's Studies in Words- 
worth, Corson's Introduction to the Study of Browning, Dowden's In- 
terpretation of Literature, in Transcripts and Studies, and Preface to 
my edition of the Prelude. 



The following works have been quoted in the notes : — 
Arnold, M. — " Memorial Verses." Preface to Selections from 

Wordsworth. 
Bagehot, W. — Literary Studies. 
Blackie, J. S. — Lays of the Highlands and Islands. 
Brooke, S. A. — Theology in the English Poets. Christ in Modern 

Life. 
Carlyle, T. — Heroes and Hero-Worship. 
Channing, W. E. — Self-culture. 
Coleridge, H. — Sonnets. 
Coleridge, S. T. — Biographia Literaria. 
Corson, H. — Introduction to Browning. 
Dowden, E. — Studies in Literature. Transcripts and Studies. 

Correspondence of Sir Henry Taylor. 
Emerson, E. W. — Emerson in Concord. 
Emerson, R. W. — Essays (''Inspiration," "Nature"). 
George, A. J. — Wordsworth's " Prelude." 
GossE, E. — From Shakespeare to Pope. 
Gray, A. — Natural Science and Religion. 
Grosart, a. B. — The Prose Works of William Wordsworth. 
Haydon, F. W. — Haydon's Correspondence and Table Talk. 



428 NOTES. 

Hudson, H. N. — Studies in Wordsworth. 

HuTTON, R. H. — Essays. 

Knight, W. — Wordsworth's Poetical Works. Memories of Cole- 
orton. 

Landor, W. S. — Imaginary Conversations. 

Lee, E. — Dorothy Wordsworth. 

LocKHART, J. G. — Life of Scott. 

Martineau, H. — Biographical Sketches. 

Mill, J. S. — Autobiography. 

Moir, D. M. — Lectures on Poetical Literature. 

Myers, F. W. — Wordsworth. 

Oliphant, Mrs. — Makers of Venice. Literary History of England. 

Rawnsley, H. D. — Sonnets at the English Lakes. 

Reed, H. — Lectures on British Poets. 

Rix, H, — Duddon Sonnets. Wordsworth Society Transactions, 
Vol. V. 

Robertson, F. W. — Lectures, Addresses, and Literary Remains. 

RusKiN, J. — Stones of Venice. Modern Painters. 

Sandford, Mrs. — Thomas Poole and His Friends. 

Scott, Sir W — Poems (" Helvellyn "). 

Shairp, J. C. — Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. Aspects of 
Poetry. Poetic Interpretation of Nature. Wordsworth's Tour in 
Scotland. 

Stephen, L. — Hours in a Library — Third Series. 

Talfourd, T. N. — Life of Charles Lamb. 

Taylor, Sir H. — Critical Essays on Poetry. Autobiography. 

Vere, a. de. — Essays. Essay in Wordsworth Society Transac- 
tions, Vol. V. 

Whipple, E. P. — Literature and Life. 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Page 

A barking sound the Shepherd hears 178 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 3^3 

Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers 160 

All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed 333 

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 79 

Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream .... 328 

An age hath been when Earth was proud 238 

And is this — Yarrow? — 77^/^ the stream 233 

An Orpheus! an Orpheus! Yes, Faith may grow bold ... 201 

Another year! Another deadly blow ! 3^5 

A pen — to register ; a key 254 

A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school 334 

A point of life between my Parents' dust 329 

A Rock there is whose homely front 276 

Art thou a Statist in the van 37 

Art thou the bird that Man loves best 112 

A simple child 4 

A slumber did my spirit seal 36 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears .... 296 

A trouble not of clouds or weeping rain 282 

Begone, thou fond presumptuous elf 99 

Behold her, single in the field 156 

Behold within the leafy shade io5 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 138 

Bleak season was it, turbulent and wild S3 

Blest is this Isle, — our native Land 256 

Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will 332 

Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere ^37 

V>Y their floating mill ^97 



430 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 

Calvert! it must not be unheard by them 314 

Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream .... 152 

Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb 316 

Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 310 

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail 193 

Dear native regions, I foretell i 

Dear to the Loves and to the Graces vovv'ed 330 

Degenerate Douglass ! Oh, the unworthy lord 306 

Departing summer hath assumed 249 

Earth hath not anything to show more fair 299 

England 1 the time is come when thou shouldst wean .... 308 

Ethereal minstrel I pilgrim of the sky 264 

Fair star of Evening, splendor of the west 300 

Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground 125 

Festivals have I seen that were not names 301 

Five years have passed ; five summers with the length .... 17 

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale 163 

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep 314 

From low to high doth dissolution climb 322 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 158 

Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt 326 

Great men have been among us ; hands that penned .... 305 

Had this effulgence disappeared 245 

Hast thou then survived . . 171 

Here pause : the poet claims at least this praise 317 

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate 211 

High is our calling, friend ! — Creative Art 317 

His simple truths did Andrew glean loi 

Hope rules a land forever green 270 

I am not One who much or oft delight 311 

I come, ye little noisy crew 39 

If from the public way you turn your step 82 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 43 1 

If Nature, for a favorite child 4^ 

If this great world of joy and pain 286 

If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven 286 

I grieved for Buonaparte 299 

I heard a thousand blended notes ^ ^ 

Inland, within a hollow vale I stood 3^3 

Inmate of a mountain dwelling 236 

In these fair vales hath many a Tree 276 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan 7 

In this still place, remote from men ^54 

In youth from rock to rock I went ^32 

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk 22 

I saw far off the dark top of a pine 33^ 

I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold ^4i 

Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind 3°° 



I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide 321 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 3^2 

It is not to be thought of that the Flood 3^5 

It is the first mild day of March ^2 

I travelled among unknown men • • •. 34 

It seems a day 3° 

It was an April morning : fresh and clear 77 

I 've watched you now a full half-hour ^^3 

I wandered lonely as a cloud ^^7 

I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile 188 

I, who accompanied with faithful pace 321 

Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I ...'.... 301 

Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side 322 

Lie here, without a record of thy worth • • 1S2 

Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun 332 

Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood 231 

Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up '99 

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns '47 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour 3^4 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 33^ 

My heart leaps up when I behold "' 



432 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 

Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands 2 

Nor can I not believe but that thereby 312 

Not in the lucid intervals of life 287 

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 324 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room 309 

O blithe New-comer ! I have heard 164 

O dearer far than light and life are dear 260 

O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 304 

Oft have I caught upon a fitful breeze 261 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray 49 

O gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee 313 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee 302 

On his morning rounds the master 181 

O Nightingale ! thou surely art 210 

On Nature's invitation do I come 52 

O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought 131 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies 115 

Pleasures newly found are sweet . / 117 

Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued 320 

Rotha, my spiritual child ! this head was gray 325 

Sacred Religion ! mother of form and fear 319 

Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned 326 

See what gay wild-flowers deck this earth-built cot 328 

Serene, and fitted to embrace 226 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways ^tZ 

She had a tall man's height or more 108 

She was a Phantom of delight 166 

Six thousand veterans practised in War's game 309 

Small service is true service while it lasts 288 

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive 295 

Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played ..... 319 

Stay near me : do not take thy flight 114 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God 175 

Strange fits of passion have I known 32 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 433 

Such age, how beautiful ! O Lady bright 325 

Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind . . 318 

Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have 190 

Sweet Highland girl, a very shower 149 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense 323 

The cock is crowing no 

The gallant Youth, who may have gained . 278 

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 54 

The little hedge-row birds 29 

The minstrels played their Christmas tune 251 

The Pibroch's note discountenanced or mute 327 

The post-boy drove with fierce career 106 

There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear ....... 307 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine 174 

There is an Eminence, — of these our hills 82 

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale 139 

"There ! " said the Stripling, pointing with meet pride . . . 330 

There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass 327 

There was a roaring in the wind all night 119 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 203 

These times strike monied worldlings with dismay 307 

" These tourists, heaven preserve us ! needs must live "... 62 

The sun has long been set 130 

The world is too much with us : late and soon 310 

They dreamt not of a perishable home 324 

Though I beheld at first with blank surprise 333 

Though many suns have risen and set 264 

" Thou lookst upon me, and dost fondly think" 329 

Three years she grew in sun and shower 34 

'T is gone, — with old belief and dream 273 

To a good Man of most dear memory 288 

Too frail to keep the lofty vow 144 

Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men 303 

Troubled long with warring notions 248 

Two Voices are there : one is of the sea 316 

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books 15 

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds 177 

28 



434 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 

Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent 308 

Well mayst thou halt — and gaze with brightening eye . . . 315 

We talked with open heart and tongue 46 

We walked along, while bright and red 44 

What awful perspective ! while from our sight 323 

What is good for a bootless bene 217 

^^ V^\\z.t, yoic are stepping westward ? '^ — Yea 155 

When first descending from the moorlands 293 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed . . ... 306 

When, to the attractions of the busy world 184 

Where are they now, those wanton Boys 243 

Where art thou, my beloved Son 168 

Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds 268 

Where will they stop, those breathing powers ....... 283 

Who is the Happy Warrior ,? Who is he ........ 194 

Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce 320 

Why, William, on that old gray stone 14 

Wings have we, and as far as we can go . \ 312 

Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 127 

Within the mind strong fancies work 240 

With little here to do or see 135 

With sacrifice before the rising morn 220 

Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth 318 

Yes, it was the mountain echo 198 

" Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see " . . . . 311 



